


New York Kiss

by wordsnnotes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Louis Tomlinson, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arguing, COVID-19, Famous Louis Tomlinson, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Injuries, Music, New York City, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Zayn Malik, Rap, Smoking, Strangers to Lovers, Writer Zayn Malik, Ziall Friendship, on to the potentially triggering stuff, side niam, zarry friendship - Freeform, ziam friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsnnotes/pseuds/wordsnnotes
Summary: “Also, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m quite the narcissistic type, and I didn’t want that cute guy to have a bad opinion of me for the rest of his life.”“Who, me?” Zayn bats his lashes jokingly, ignoring the fact that his heart skipped a beat at Louis’ words.“Yeah, you. So, shall we go?”Louis drops what remains of his cigarette on the floor and steps on it to light it off. Meanwhile, Zayn makes a reckless decision.“Alright. Lead the way, De Niro.”Or: A strangers to lovers AU where Louis is an actor, Zayn is a writer (among other things), and they meet each other literally by accident in NYC, just as the world is about to turn upside down.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 18





	1. An accident - Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> It's been a while since I've posted something as a wip, so thank you if you're willing to join me on the ride 😌 I'm about half-way through writing this, and I expect it to be approximately 6 chapters/30k. Don't quote me on that, though 😬 I'll probably be updating it weekly, if not more frequently, depending on how much I get done.
> 
> Music is quite an integral part of this story. I've included links to the songs and albums that are mentioned as much as possible, and they can also be found in this [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BdxH0dX6jLr23U0T04JML?si=veahUWWSR6WTWGCwpp-mRg). The title itself is from the song [New York Kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOO6wD4Sy8k) by Spoon, whose lyrics are one of the premises behind this fic.
> 
> Disclaimers/Content warning: This fic is set during the Covid-19 pandemic (which is still well under way as I'm writing/posting this). This is not the story's major theme, however it's there in the background and it does influence the characters and the plot in some ways. So if Covid is a triggering topic for you, you might want to skip this. I also wanted to say that I'm not living in the US, and even though I did do some research about the pandemic there, some details might be inaccurate. Oh and also, I'm not a health professional, so please don't expect any kind of medical accuracy for the few scenes that go into health-related stuff.

_February 2020_

Zayn is riding his bike, and he hates it. But it’s either that or the subway, and if he really has to choose—which he does, because it’s not like he can afford anything else in NYC—he’d rather be at the surface of the Earth and risk being killed by speeding cars, than be locked in a tiny, overcrowded space, moving too slow for his own taste.

He’s tried it a few times, though, thought it would be inspiring to be around so many people at once. But he was overwhelmed instead, with all these stories to be told, these complicated lives that don’t make sense, these days filled with work, friendship, love and loneliness. 

He doesn’t know where to start. It’s been close to two months, and he doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t know who his first target should be. Can’t even put three words together without wanting to throw his laptop out the window.

Anyway, he’s riding his bike along Avenue A now, knowing it’s still going to take him about 20 minutes before he finally makes it back to his shitty Brooklyn flat. Apartment. Whatever.

Tompkins Square Park is just coming in sight on his left when there’s a sudden heaviness in the air, and time slows down, each second becoming more significant than the last. Like something is going to happen.

And it does.

The next thing he knows, he’s lying on the ground, and his right arm hurts, his ears are ringing louder than usual, and his brain is fuzzy.

Someone’s face is hovering above him, eyes blue and mouth moving, but it takes Zayn a while to be able to hear anything. When he does, all he can process is “so sorry”, and “ambulance”.

The latter finally brings him back to his senses, and he shakes his head violently.

“No, don’t call an ambulance. Can’t afford it.”

“But your head is bleeding,” the guy argues. “And your arm…”

“I’m fine,” Zayn grumbles, trying to sit up, but the man grips his shoulders and keeps him pinned to the cold concrete.

“Don’t move. You could have a concussion or something. I’m calling an ambulance,” he repeats, taking a phone out of his pocket, and Zayn truly starts to panic now.

“I told you I can’t afford it, man, leave me alone.”

“I’ll pay for it, okay? The accident’s me fault anyway.”

For the first time, Zayn notices the guy’s accent, eerily similar to some of his closest mates’ back home.

He’s got so many questions, the three pressing ones being: _how is some British guy like you able to afford healthcare in the US?_ , _what do you mean_ you _caused the accident?_ , and last but not least, _who the fuck are you?_

But before he can settle on one, he blacks out again.

🌇🌇🌇

When he wakes up, he’s lying on a stretcher and everything around him is overwhelmingly loud and agitated. 

“Oh, you’re up, thank God,” a voice says in his vicinity, and he doesn’t immediately realise that those words are addressed to him. Because, why would they? No one knows him in this city, and he knows no one.

But then, a face appears above him, the same as a few minutes ago. Was it really a few minutes ago, though? Considering he’s clearly in the ER right now, it might have been hours, actually.

“How are you feeling?” the guy asks, as if he’s got some kind of claim over the answer. Zayn isn’t sure he likes it.

“Who are you?” he replies instead.

The man frowns, distinctly getting paler.

“Um… You really got no idea?”

“Should I?” Zayn asks confusedly.

“I… Er… You know who _you_ are, right? And like, today’s date and everything?”

“Yeah.” Zayn almost wants to chuckle, but he’s feeling too weak to.

“Well, tell me, then,” the stranger insists.

Zayn sighs, but complies.

“I’m Zayn Malik. Today’s date is February 27th 2020. Unless I was out for longer than I thought.”

There’s a clear wave of relief rushing over the man’s face.

“Oh, great. So you just really have no idea who I am, then.”

Zayn scoffs.

“No offense, but why would I know who you are? I’m pretty sure we’ve never met before.”

“No, you’re right, we haven’t,” the man confirms with a smile, and wow. That’s quite a smile, if Zayn is being honest. “Well, it’s pretty embarrassing, now…” he carries on, his voice trailing off.

“Oh c’mon, out with it, the suspense is killing me.”

Zayn doesn’t add that the pain in his arm is killing him too. That guy doesn’t need to know.

“Right. Yeah. Well, I’m Louis Tomlinson.” He pauses, and stares at Zayn in expectation, as if the name is supposed to mean anything to him. Zayn stares back, and waits for him to finish. “I’m kind of a… famous actor?”

Oh. Somehow, Zayn’s not surprised. That guy—Louis—looks way too perfect for him not to be an actor. He might even be wearing makeup right now, actually.

“How famous are we talking about, on a scale from 1 to Leonardo DiCaprio?” Zayn mutters.

The thing is, he hasn’t seen a new film in years. All he watches are old Bollywood movies from his childhood, because they’re comfortable.

“Well, before today, I would have said something like Timothée Chalamet kind of famous? But now I don’t know anymore. You’ve really never heard of me?”

Zayn shrugs—he hardly knows who that Chalamet bloke is—but before he can answer, a nurse materialises in front of them, and says:

“Sir, it’s your turn. We’re going to x-ray that arm, alright?” 

He starts to roll his stretcher away from Louis, and Zayn is hit with the seriousness of the situation again, starting to protest:

“But…I can’t–”

“I told you I’d pay! I’ll wait for you at the reception desk, yeah?” Louis rushes to say.

“Don’t sign too many autographs while I’m gone!” Zayn calls back, and he hears Louis giggle in the distance.

Intrigued by Zayn’s words, the nurse turns to take a glance at his interlocutor, and a look of amazement appears on his face.

“You’re friends with Louis Tomlinson?”

“I’m not _friends_ with him,” Zayn sighs. “He’s just the guy who broke my arm, apparently.”

🌇🌇🌇

Thirty minutes later, the doctor confirms his arm actually _is_ broken. He’s going to have to wear a cast for a while, which pretty much sucks. It shouldn't keep him from working, but typing is going to be incredibly slow, and he can say goodbye to his bike for now. By the way, what happened to his bike? And what happened…?

“Can you tell me about the accident?” the doctor asks, as if she was just reading his mind.

“I can’t recall. All I know is, I was riding my bike down the street, and the next thing I remember, I was lying on the ground, feeling stunned.”

“Alright,” she answers. “I’m gonna ask you a few questions and we’re gonna run some tests, just to check you don’t have a concussion.”

He wants to point out that maybe they should have done this first, if it’s really that serious. But, well, it’s the American healthcare system, what do you expect?

“There’s someone here who could tell you about the accident, actually,” he says, while she checks he can answer a few basic questions about himself and the world they live in. “He’s the one who caused it. Told me he’d be waiting at the reception desk.”

“Well, that’s really nice of him, isn’t it?” she smiles, gesturing at the nurse to go fetch him.

The guy is hardly containing his excitement as he almost runs to the door.

“Sure,” Zayn shrugs.

To be honest, he doesn’t really understand why anyone, let alone some kind of Hollywood star, would take time out of their day to wait in a hospital for someone they don’t even know.

It must be guilt, he supposes.

A few minutes later, the nurse walks through the door, followed by Louis.

If the doctor’s wide eyes are anything to go by, she recognises him, but she quickly composes herself, and says:

“Mr. Malik is telling me you… um, caused the accident? Could you tell me more about what happened? He doesn’t remember.”

“Right,” Louis chuckles with what seems to be nervousness, but he might be faking it. “It’s stupid, really. I was getting out of my car and I didn’t look before opening the door. Zay– er… Mr. Malik was just passing by the car on his bike at that exact moment, and I must have opened the door pretty abruptly, because before I could realise what was happening, he was already on the floor.”

There’s a beat, and for some reason the three of them turn to look at Zayn, as if he’d have some valuable comment to make about the story. 

And yeah, maybe it _is_ a funny story, when you think about it. Maybe it’s going to become some sort of self-deprecating anecdote that Louis tells his actor friends at Hollywood pool parties or whatever. But what is that thing kids say these days? Right. Zayn would very much like to be excluded from this narrative.

“Can I go home now?” he asks.

“Well, ideally it would be better if we could keep you in observation for the night,” the doctor argues. “Your test results are okay, but concussions can be tricky to spot.”

He sits up abruptly.

“No, please, I’m totally fine. Like, nothing’s wrong up there, I swear.”

Even if Louis said he’d pay for his medical bills, Zayn isn’t the kind to blindly trust some random guy who’s half-famous only because he fooled everyone into thinking he can impersonate other people. So the less time he spends here, the better.

The doctor sighs.

“I guess I could let you go, but only on the condition that you have someone at home who can monitor you tonight, check up on you at regular intervals. And that you come back here right away, in case anything changes.”

Zayn doesn’t answer immediately. The thing is, no one’s waiting for him in his tiny flat. That was the whole point of him moving here: being alone. Well, not the whole point, but one of the points. He’s really tired now, though, and he really misses his bed and his laptop.

“Deal,” he says, not quite looking at her. “My roommate can do it.”

🌇🌇🌇

As he and Louis walk back to the reception desk, where they have to sign some papers before Zayn can finally, finally go home and forget all about today, Louis quietly declares:

“I know you lied.”

“Huh?”

“About you having a roommate. You don’t have one.”

Zayn stops dead in his tracks.

“How the fuck would you know?”

“I don’t, but I’m a professional liar. And I can spot other liars when I see them. You’re good, but not as good as you think you are.”

Zayn scoffs, then resumes walking.

“That’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but if you died of a concussion because you were too stubborn to stay at the hospital just for one night, and the press was to find out I was involved in your accident… You can see how that would literally be my business.”

“Oh wow. That’s _so_ considerate of you, thank you.”

“Look, all I’m saying is, I don’t want you to die because of a succession of stupid mistakes, okay? Why won’t you stay here for the night?”

Zayn stops walking again, and turns to look at Louis, crossing his arms and putting on his deadliest stare. But Louis must have seen a lot of similar stares in his no-doubt extensive career, as he doesn’t even flinch, just continues looking at him and waiting for an answer.

“I hate hospitals, alright?” Zayn eventually spits out. “They freak me out, and if I don’t leave this place right this instant, I’m either gonna have a panic attack, or attack _someone_ , preferably you. So now, how about we sign those damn papers, go our separate ways, and not see each other nor this hospital ever again?”

This little monologue seems to leave Louis rather unimpressed, but he nods anyway, and they start making their way to the ground floor again.

Just as the front desk is coming in sight, Louis whispers:

“Are you sure _you’re_ not the actor here?”

🌇🌇🌇

Twenty minutes later, they’re finally walking out of the hospital. It’s night time now, with the orange glow of cars speeding down the street and the smell of snow in the air.

Luckily, the hospital is located in lower Manhattan, so it shouldn’t take long for Zayn to get back home, even with the subway.

He turns to Louis, wondering what would be an appropriate way to say goodbye to the famous guy who almost got him killed, then wasted an entire evening graciously dealing with the consequences.

But Louis beats him to it. 

“You know, I was thinking…” he starts, lighting a cigarette. “If you really don’t know anyone who can monitor you tonight, you could come to my place, and I’ll do it.”

He extends the cigarette pack to him, but Zayn’s too stunned to take it.

“You’re not serious, right?” he eventually manages to ask.

“I’m very serious.” When he sees Zayn still doesn’t move an inch, Louis shrugs and puts the cigarettes back in his jeans’ pocket, then continues: “As I said, it would be a shame if you died because of plain old me.”

“The doctor never said _death_ was on the table,” Zayn points out with a sigh.

“It’s always on the table, though, isn’t it?”

Zayn’s got no idea how they reached this point, standing under the yellow streetlights and discussing death like they’re intimate or something.

“Anyway,” Louis goes on, exhaling smoke right in Zayn’s face, “I’ve got your bike at home. You might as well come and get it, and stay the night. There’s plenty of room for you, don’t worry.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Zayn mutters, settling on inhaling the smoke, because he feels like it’s too late to ask Louis for an actual cigarette now. “What the fuck is my bike doing at your place, though?”

Louis takes another puff, and his fingers look blue.

“After the ambulance took you away, I realised your bike was still there. I didn’t know what to do with it, but I figured it was a bad idea to leave it on the streets, or even unattended at the hospital. So I took it back home, where it’s safely waiting for you in the living room. And then I drove back here.”

Zayn starts laughing. This guy truly is something else.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Louis asks with a slightly offended expression.

“You’re just so weird like… You told me you’re famous, but honestly I wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t been for how the nurse and the doctor recognised you, and how you paid for my bills like the amount didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Why wouldn’t you have believed it?” Louis frowns, and Zayn wonders if it’s because his pride is hurt.

“What kind of famous person would go through all this trouble for someone they don’t even know?”

“That’s literally what me job is,” Louis argues. “Going through a lot of trouble for people I won’t ever meet—me audience.”

After a beat, Zayn shakes his head.

“It’s different. I assume acting is something you’re passionate about. The fact it might benefit other people is just an added bonus. But I hardly think spending hours in a hospital is something that brings you purpose.”

“Alright,” Louis says, and it surprises Zayn that he gives in to his argument so easily. But then, Zayn’s always been good at winning debates. “Then let’s just say I felt guilty and stupid about what happened, and I didn’t have any other plans tonight anyway,” Louis goes on. “Also, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m quite the narcissistic type, and I didn’t want that cute guy to have a bad opinion of me for the rest of his life.”

“Who, me?” Zayn bats his lashes jokingly, ignoring the fact that his heart skipped a beat at Louis’ words.

“Yeah, you. So, shall we go? Your bike must be missing you like crazy.”

Louis drops what remains of his cigarette on the floor and steps on it to light it off. Meanwhile, Zayn makes a reckless decision.

“Alright. Lead the way, De Niro.”

🌇🌇🌇

In the car, they don’t say anything for a while. Zayn is looking out the window, taking everything in with avidity. He hasn’t driven around Manhattan yet, only walked or rode his bike through the constantly busy streets. Seeing the city from the passenger seat of a car he’d never be able to afford instantly makes it more cinematic, somehow. The sidewalks are cleaner, the buildings higher, and the neon signs brighter. He watches the people in particular, and even though they pass them by too quickly for him to be able to distinguish any kind of remarkable feature, he falls in love with each and everyone of them. He’s got half-formed stories going through his mind, and wishes he was back home, so he could write them all down, and finally do what he came here to do.

He feels Louis’ eyes on him, but doesn’t want to acknowledge them. _Louis himself could be a story_ , he thinks, and instantly wishes the idea to disappear, but knows it’s useless, knows he’s hooked on it already.

“So…” Louis’ voice shatters the silence into a thousand pieces. “Where did you move here from?”

“Who said anything about moving here?” Zayn asks, fully expecting Louis to point out his accent. But instead, he replies:

“The way you’re looking at things like you’re seeing them for the first time.”

Zayn wants to answer that if Louis’ job is to lie, his is to watch. It’s not really his actual job, though. Not anymore. So instead, he says:

“I moved here from somewhere no one knows who you are, apparently.”

Louis snorts.

“And what’s this lovely place called?”

“Bradford.”

“I could tell it was somewhere in Yorkshire,” Louis smiles in victory. “What led you here?”

Zayn could easily come up with some bullshit about New York being the city of his dreams, or whatever. But the truth is, every single night he wakes up in the early hours of the morning, his heart beating like crazy as he wonders what the fuck he’s doing here, and why he’s putting himself and everybody else through this. 

He remains silent. Louis glances at him, clearing his throat in awkwardness.

“I’m from Doncaster, actually,” he says hesitantly.

Zayn gives a non-committal hum. The last thing he wants is to talk about home, right now.

Louis finally seems to get the message, and he turns the radio on for the last few minutes of their journey.

Zayn closes his eyes, getting lost in the bland tunes and American accents.

🌇🌇🌇

He isn’t really sure what he expected from some celebrity’s Manhattan flat. Something flashy and in bad taste, probably. Or something impersonal that’s clearly not lived in. He may need to review his prejudices about Hollywood stars, though. Because yes, Louis’ place is big and undeniably luxurious, with its large windows that overlook Central Park, and its private elevator to access it, but it’s also welcoming, somehow. Maybe it’s because it’s almost as messy as Zayn’s own flat. Maybe it’s because the walls are covered in books. Maybe it’s because it smells of England.

Or maybe it’s because Louis is standing in the middle of the living room, looking at him expectantly like he cares about Zayn’s opinion.

“It’s nice, mate,” Zayn says, unwilling to disclose more. It seems to be enough for Louis, though, as he sends him a smile, and replies:

“Yeah, I really like it here. Wish I never had to leave.”

Zayn nods, but he can’t relate to the feeling, can’t remember the last time he liked a place so much he wasn’t daydreaming about getting the fuck out of there. He’s been in New York for less than two months, and he’s getting sick of it already. It could be because he hasn’t got any friends yet, but then, he did have friends back home, and… He puts that thought far, far away in the back of his mind.

Meanwhile, Louis leads him through a hallway. Zayn catches a glimpse of what must be his room, with clothes spread all over the floor, and two big suitcases open in the middle.

He wants to ask Louis if he’s going somewhere, but catches himself just in time. Because it’s none of his business, is it?

“Here we are,” Louis clears his throat, opening a door and flicking the interruptor on. “Sorry, it’s a bit… empty. I don’t often have visitors.”

The room is indeed hardly furnished, but it’s not like Zayn is going to complain.

“It’s fine. That bed looks comfortable as hell, and to be honest, that’s all I care about right now.”

“Cool,” Louis says, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Well, I’ll let you settle in, then. There’s a bathroom next door, and I can lend you some clothes.”

He leaves the room and comes back almost immediately, carrying a t-shirt and a well-worn pair of joggers. 

“I’d say we’re the same size, yeah?”

Zayn is starting to feel the awkwardness of the situation too. He wishes he could call one of his sisters, and tell her about what’s happening to him. She’d probably know who Louis Tomlinson is, and exactly how much Zayn needs to freak out about that guy lending him his own personal clothes. But of course, it’s impossible to call them, for more than one reason.

He sits on the bed, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.

“I’ll come check on you regularly during the night, alright? Just like the doctor said.”

Zayn looks up at Louis. He seems to be serious.

“I don’t want you to have a shitty night because of me,” he says.

Louis shrugs.

“As a rule, I hardly sleep anyway.”

“Insomnia?”

“Yeah.”

There must be a story behind it. There’s _always_ a story behind it, Zayn knows that better than anyone. But he doesn’t ask.

Louis seems to be about to leave the room, but Zayn calls:

“Hey, Louis. Thanks, by the way. I don’t think I’ve said it yet, but I do appreciate what you’re doing, okay?”

There’s a beat, then a smile appears on Louis’ lips. Maybe Zayn’s mistaken, but it seems more honest than all the other ones he’s witnessed in the past hours.

“You’re welcome. Sleep well, yeah?”

Zayn nods, and Louis gently closes the door behind him.

🌇🌇🌇

He wakes up in a cold sweat just as the sun is starting to rise. He doesn’t understand where he is at first, but it comes back to him when he rolls around in the bed, and sees Louis in baby blue pajamas, fast asleep on an armchair by the door. _That weirdo must have stayed here all night_ , one part of Zayn’s brain grumbles, while another, more pressing one, is begging him to remember something.

Shit. Work. He knew he was forgetting about something last night, but was too tired to deal with it then. But it’s all coming back to him now. He has a morning shift today.

He sits up abruptly, and maybe Louis wasn’t sleeping that soundly after all, as the sudden movement seems to be enough to wake him up. He rubs his eyes like a cat, but Zayn hasn’t got time to focus on _that_ , he needs to get moving if he doesn’t want to be late.

“Why all the rush?” Louis asks, his voice raspy.

“I need to go soon. My shift is starting in…” Zayn checks his phone. “45 minutes.”

“Shit. Are you gonna be okay at work? I mean, with your arm, and your head… How’s it feeling, by the way? Well, you’re not dead, at least.”

“It’s fine,” Zayn answers, sprinting to the bathroom. His head’s actually pounding right now, but once again, Louis doesn’t need to know that. “And my arm shouldn’t be too much of a problem, thankfully.” _Not like I have a choice anyway_ , he mutters to himself. He can’t afford to lose this job. He actually enjoys it, and the pay’s decent.

Louis doesn’t answer, but a minute later, he knocks on the bathroom door.

“You can come in,” Zayn says distractedly while removing the dressing on his temple.

“Oh.” Louis appears in the doorway. He stares at Zayn’s wound, which still looks pretty nasty, but doesn’t make a comment, saying instead: “I just thought… you might need some clothes.”

He drops a pile of black clothing next to Zayn, who hardly glances at it, too focused on cleaning his wound and covering it with a new band-aid. There’s no way he’s walking around in a stranger’s clothes today, anyway. Especially if that stranger is a famous one. How weird would that be?

“Thanks, but I can wear what I was wearing yesterday,” he mumbles.

“Zayn… It’s all stained with blood. Unless you want people at work to think you’re a serial killer or something, I’d strongly suggest you wear those instead. I’ll wash yours while you’re gone, and you can return mine after work, yeah?”

“Hmm. Maybe I got time to ride back home quickly and get changed, actually,” Zayn retorts, his eyes landing on Louis’ in the mirror.

Louis sighs, and looks at him with what seems to be a mixture of pity and amusement.

“First off, I don’t know where you work, nor where your place is, but I doubt you'd have time to make the trip, especially during rush hour. Second off, you’re in no state to ride a bike right now. Won’t be for several weeks, I’d say, with the broken arm and all.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. There’s nothing he hates more than being wrong. Actually, there’s one thing, and it’s a slightly annoying yet undeniably hot guy telling him he’s wrong.

“Fine,” he shrugs, feigning indifference. “I don’t have time to argue anyway.”

“So it’s settled, then?” Louis asks. “You’ll drop by here after work? I can drive you back home with your bike, actually.”

“No offense, but don’t you have, like… a life?” Zayn points out. “I would have thought you actors didn’t have one minute to yourselves.”

“True, for the most part,” Louis agrees, turning around while Zayn struggles to remove his shirt and put on the new one, encumbered by his cast. “But I’ve got a few days off right now. I’m leaving tomorrow to start filming a new project.”

“Where are you going? LA?” Zayn can’t help but ask.

“No, actually,” Louis replies in a mysterious tone. “I’m not allowed to say where exactly, but it’s not on this continent.”

Zayn hums, and walks out of the bathroom, going back to the bedroom to gather his things.

Louis eventually notices he’s gone, and scoffs, joining him.

“Aren’t you worried about traveling?” Zayn asks as he’s putting his jacket on.

“Do you mean… with the virus?” 

“Yeah.”

They both stay silent for a few seconds. There’s this feeling of impending doom hovering above all of them these days. Some people might be pretending that everything is alright, but Zayn’s been watching the news obsessively, seeing how much worse the situation is getting, hour by hour and country by country, and knowing it’s only a matter of time until it reaches them here, and back home.

Louis eventually replies:

“Yeah. I am, actually. But I haven’t really got a choice, I made a commitment.”

Zayn nods, but wants to argue that Louis is surely in a position to have a choice. When you’re having the kind of success he understands Louis has, you can always say no. Maybe it takes some recklessness, some bravery, some guts, but you can always say no.

He doesn’t tell Louis this, though. He’s in no position to judge, plus, despite what he might have said the night before, Louis probably doesn’t give a fuck about Zayn’s opinion.

So Zayn grabs his backpack and goes for the door, but Louis is standing in the way.

“Sure you don’t wanna take the day off?” he asks.

Zayn rolls his eyes, and gently pushes Louis away from the door. 

“Can’t. I’m still in my probation period,” he explains, starting to walk down the hallway. “And stop mothering me, please. We don’t know each other.”

“We might, though,” Louis says behind him.

At this, Zayn stops and turns around, his heart momentarily stopping.

“What do you mean?” he asks, knowing his voice is trembling, almost like he’s frightened. Which he kind of is, if he’s being honest.

Louis frowns, seemingly sensing that something’s wrong.

“I just meant… We could get to know each other, if you wanted…” his voice trails off.

Oh. This wasn’t how Zayn had interpreted Louis’ comment, but he’s only relieved for a split second. Because, what the fuck?

“Is this your way of making a move on me?”

“Call it what you want,” Louis shrugs. He’s still staring at Zayn, still wearing these pajamas as blue as his eyes.

And Zayn can’t deal with this right now. Nor ever, probably.

He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I… I can’t. I just... I have to go, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for Louis’ answer, just turns away and leaves the flat as fast as possible, like the coward he is.

🌇🌇🌇

“Sorry I’m late,” he says breathlessly, storming into the store.

From behind the counter, Harry watches him with wide eyes.

“Nevermind that, what the hell happened to you?”

“Oh, that,” Zayn shrugs. He doesn’t want Harry to think his injuries will make him less efficient. Although they might. “Fell off my bike yesterday, but I’m fine.”

He drops his bag in the back room, and joins Harry behind the counter. His boss is still looking at him with a worried expression.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You could have taken the day off, if you wanted. Friday mornings are always slow, I could have managed by myself.”

“No, I’m good, don’t fret it,” Zayn answers. He’s grateful for Harry’s concern, he really is, but he also heard so many horror stories about people losing their job for less than that that he’d rather not tempt fate.

Harry opens his mouth to say something else, but thankfully, he’s interrupted by a customer walking up to the counter, and asking how much it’d cost to send a package to Brazil.

While Harry deals with them, Zayn decides to unpack the boxes of newspapers and magazines.

It takes him longer than it usually does, and relying on only one arm also makes the task more tiring. But he gets lost in it, setting up the items in a way that makes sense and aligning them perfectly, while he tries his best not to let the worrying headlines get to his brain. He’ll deal with those later, in the comfort and safety of his own place.

To distract himself, he thinks about how weird it is he ended up working here. Back home, he always loved these kinds of all-in-one post offices where you could find everything, including greeting cards, condoms, chocolate bars, and the latest issue of Vogue. He remembers spending hours in these places as a teen, browsing the music section in the magazine aisle, and buying more pens and notebooks than he needed to. 

And yet, he would have never imagined working in that exact kind of store, let alone on the other side of the world. It was literally the first ad he came across when he started looking for a job, the day after he landed, and he quickly learnt that the owner was from England himself. It played in his favour, he gathers, because he honestly didn’t have any of the required qualifications for the position. But he and Harry hit it off immediately, and Zayn likes coming here everyday, in this bubble where time doesn’t seem to exist, where people still send letters and still buy physical newspapers.

He’s almost done unpacking all the boxes now. The only stack left is Variety. He usually never pays attention to those—he really _is_ uninterested in cinema, he suddenly realises. Any other day, he would have hardly glanced at the cover. But today is not like any other day, because he can’t ignore the 14 big letters that are spread on the first page, and the face behind them. _Louis Tomlinson_. Louis fucking Tomlinson is on the front page of Variety. Guess he wasn’t lying when he said he was a famous actor, then.

Zayn wants to read the feature here and now, and maybe stare at the other pictures of Louis that are surely hidden inside those pages. But he’s at work, he reasons. Plus, who cares about that guy anyway? So he puts the magazines on display, less carefully than he has so far, just so he can walk away from temptation as quickly as possible.

Two hours later, he’s about to go on a break, and he still can’t get the cover out of his mind. It doesn’t help that he has a perfect view of the magazine aisle from the counter. 

He goes to the back room and sits on the battered couch, only to get up again, pace along the walls for a full minute, then walk out, and sheepishly ask Harry:

“Mind if I read one of those during my break?”

“Help yourself.” Harry looks at him inquisitively, but doesn’t say anything else as Zayn walks to the stand, grabs a copy of Variety, and escapes back to the room.

He doesn’t learn much from the interview itself. Maybe he hasn’t read a lot of magazines like this, but he knows those kinds of vapid questions are the rule: What’s your definition of success? When did you know you wanted to be an actor? What’s your favourite film?

Louis’ answers, at least, are straight to the point. There’s no fake complexity, no pseudo-philosophical explanations, no flashy narratives. Louis called himself a professional liar, but reading what he supposedly said, he strikes Zayn as being honest. 

Zayn is still left wanting to know more, though. About stuff like Louis’ childhood, or what his true aspirations are, or how fame must be messing up his relationship with himself.

Along with the article, just like he expected, there’s pictures of Louis in various settings and decadent outfits. He looks good, insanely good, Zayn can’t deny it. In one of the pictures, he’s wearing clothes that look straight out of Zayn’s own closet: black boots, dark ripped jeans, and an unpolished leather jacket on top of naked skin. He’s staring at the camera, his eyelids subtly adorned with dark lines, and Zayn has to close the magazine and his own eyes. He wasn’t prepared to be met with that kind of vision on a gloomy Friday morning, in the depressing back room of a post office.

A few minutes later, once he’s recovered a bit, he puts the magazine back in place, and joins Harry behind the counter.

“I didn’t take you for the Variety type,” Harry remarks nonchalantly, but Zayn is starting to know him, and there’s definitely intrigue hidden beneath his words.

“I’m not,” he mumbles. “Just got curious, ‘cause I never heard of that Tomlinson guy before.”

“Yeah, he’s quite a phenomenon, these days,” Harry ponders.

“You seen his films?” Zayn can’t help but ask.

“Some of them, yeah. He’s good. Like, one of the movies I saw was a superhero type of thing, and another was something way more artsy, you know? And he seemed equally suited to both, somehow. Plus, he’s fit, so…” He punctuates the last sentence with a wink, which makes Zayn feel embarrassed, for some reason. “Also, he’s openly gay,” Harry adds.

“Oh.”

It’s not like Zayn’s surprised, per se. Louis did make some kind of move on him this morning, and that photoshoot didn’t exactly give off straight vibes either. But still, from what he can tell, it’s pretty rare for someone as famous as Louis to be out, especially in this particular industry.

“Looks like you found your new idol,” Harry smirks, but before Zayn can protest, he’s already disappeared in the stockroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading 💕 Let me know what you think so far if you want! There's a [fic post](https://quelsentiment.tumblr.com/post/643485564919791616/new-york-kiss-by-wordsnnotes-quelsentiment) that you can reblog as well 😊


	2. An accident - Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and commenting so far, love you all 💕

Zayn steels himself before knocking on Louis’ door. It’s strange, now that he’s got the confirmation Louis actually _is_ a big deal in the movie world, or even the world at large, he suddenly feels shy about seeing him again. He wants to search his memory for all the embarrassing things he must have told him yesterday, and wallow in self-induced awkwardness.

But then, as he hears footsteps come closer behind the door, he changes his mind. Who cares about fame anyway? Certainly not Zayn. So, he should continue seeing Louis as the weird guy who broke his arm and insisted on offering him excessive help afterwards.

“Hey,” Louis smiles, opening the door. He’s wearing a grey hoodie and sweatpants, nothing like the sophisticated outfits from that photoshoot. But it makes sense, Zayn reasons. The man's got no reason to dress like a movie star in the comfort of his own home.

“I was just finishing up packing me bags. How was work?” Louis continues, leading him into the living room.

It’s slightly less messy than the day before—he must have done some cleaning up while Zayn was gone. A TV is playing a news channel in the corner, and Zayn can’t help but stare at the frightening graphs on display as he answers:

“Good. Pretty boring, as always.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks. “No funny story to tell me about?”

At the word ‘story’, Zayn finally takes his eyes away from the screen, and looks at Louis, wondering once again if he possibly figured something out.

“Well… I asked my boss if he knew about you,” he answers carefully.

He doesn’t mention the magazine, afraid that Louis would demand to know what he thought about the article and the accompanying pictures, and Zayn would blurt out offensive comments about the interview and/or a love declaration for eyeliner-wearing Louis.

“What did he say?” Louis asks, oblivious to Zayn’s predicament.

“He said you’re good. That I should watch your films.”

Louis seems unproportionally overjoyed at the fact that a complete stranger praised him.

“I like that boss of yours,” he chuckles. “I don’t know how I feel about you watching my films, though.”

“Why?” Zayn frowns.

“I don’t know, I guess… It’s been so long since I met someone who didn’t know anything about me work. It’s refreshing, somehow, to think that in your head, I’m not that ‘famous’ actor, just…”

“...some random guy who almost got me killed?”

“Yeah,” Louis snorts.

There’s a beat, then Zayn nods.

“I understand. I won’t watch your films, then.”

“You're free to do whatever you want,” Louis shrugs. “But thank you.”

The silence after that is heavy. Zayn’s brain is aware that the room is not entirely quiet, that the TV is still playing, that there’s some unidentified song coming from somewhere down the hallway, and that his ears are ringing the way they always do, but none of these count as real sounds, somehow.

His eyes are focused on Louis’ hoodie. He wants to reach out and see if the material feels as soft as it looks. He swallows, and forces himself to look up, meet Louis’ eyes, and ask:

“Still okay to drive me and my bike home?”

The sound of his voice seems to bring Louis back to the present as well, and Zayn wonders what his own internal world looks like.

“Sure, just let me grab me coat and keys, and we can go.”

Before they leave the flat, Zayn can’t help but take one last look at it. He feels sad, all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’ll never set foot in that kind of place ever again, or because he’ll never set foot in this particular one.

“You alright?” Louis asks, pushing Zayn’s bike into the elevator.

“Yeah, just… a bit tired, I think,” Zayn answers.

This time, if Louis catches his lie, he doesn’t say anything about it.

🌇🌇🌇

Louis miraculously finds an empty parking spot right in front of Zayn’s building.

The ride was mostly silent, Zayn still feeling weirdly nostalgic about things that never happened, while Louis seemed to understand he didn’t feel like talking.

“Where do you usually put your bike?” Louis asks as they get out of the car.

“In my flat, actually, figured it was safer. But I guess…” Zayn gestures at his broken arm.

“Don’t worry,” Louis cuts him. “I’ll bring it upstairs for you. I mean… If you’re okay with me coming into your place?”

“It’s only fair, innit?” Zayn shrugs.

When he opens his door a few minutes later, though, he starts to regret his decision. Not because his place is messy, but because of what the mess is made of.

“Wow,” Louis whispers, putting the bike next to the door. “That’s a lot of notebooks. And CDs.”

This feels like an understatement. The floor is littered with them, because Zayn has been too lazy so far to install bookshelves.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, kicking some of the items out of the way, and wondering if he should offer Louis a drink or something, after everything the guy did for him.

“It’s alright,” Louis replies, still looking at the floor curiously. “It’s funny you’ve got so many CDs, most people are into vinyls, these days.”

“I guess that’s what was popular when I was a teen,” Zayn explains. “Most of those are from that time.”

“You brought them along with you from England?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty much the only thing I took with me, actually.” _That and the notebooks_ , he almost adds, but he doesn’t want to draw more attention to them.

“Mind if I take a closer look?” Louis asks.

“Knock yourself out,” Zayn answers, going to the kitchen and trying to collect himself there.

It’s fine. There’s no need for him to lose his shit over Louis showing an interest in his rap collection, and by the sounds of it, fumbling through it right now.

“What do you wanna drink?” he calls. “I got beer, or… Well that’s all, actually.”

“Just water’s fine, thanks,” Louis answers, his voice sounding a bit distracted.

So Zayn fills two slightly dusty glasses with tap water, grabs his cigarette pack and his lighter from the windowsill, and joins Louis again in the living room, which is also his bedroom.

Louis is sitting with his legs crossed on the floor, his back against the bed, and he’s looking through a pile of albums that’s precariously set on his lap.

Zayn sits next to him, and puts the two glasses in the space between them.

Louis is studying each album cover with interest, and after a few seconds, he admits: “I never heard of any of these artists.”

“Probably because they’re all French,” Zayn chuckles.

“You speak French?” Louis asks, finally taking his eyes away from the CDs to rest them on Zayn, who can feel his own cheeks get a bit hot.

“Nah, I just like to listen to rap in other languages. Hear the different rhymes and flows, y'know?”

“I see,” Louis nods. “Thought you were a language prodigy, for a minute,” he adds with a smirk.

“I am, though,” Zayn replies smugly while he steals the stack out of Louis’ hands and carefully picks one album, then crawls to the CD player to put it on. The quick opening lines start to flood the room, and he turns back to Louis, who’s looking at him quizzically.

“Care to explain?” 

“I speak Urdu. My dad’s from Pakistan,” Zayn says, wondering why he’s sharing this with Louis, but unable to stop himself. “And I took a few languages at uni. Old English, Italian, Japanese. Don’t speak any of them fluently—not like you can speak Old English, anyway. But I've a basic understanding of them.”

Louis is bumping his head along to the beat, and Zayn wonders if he realises it. He sits back next to him, and takes a sip of water, just to do something with his hands.

“That’s cool. I’m actually leaving for Japan tomorrow,” Louis reveals, looking at him more intensely than Zayn can handle. “I don’t speak Japanese, though.”

“Maybe you’ll have some time to learn.” 

Zayn’s heart is beating fast, even faster than the beat of the song, and he knows only one way to slow it down.

He puts a cigarette between his lips, then offers one to Louis, who takes it, his fingers brushing Zayn’s in the process.

“So you _do_ smoke, after all.”

The fact that he remembers Zayn turned down a cigarette the night before, that they somehow have shared memories, makes Zayn feel more overwhelmed than he’s been in the past 24 hours, even when he woke up in the hospital.

He closes his eyes, and focuses on the smoke coursing through his body and the music coursing through his brain, muttering along the words, because even if he doesn’t know this particular language, he’ll always know rap itself.

The song fades into another, much slower and moody one. One of his favourites from the album, actually. 

Just in time with the opening line— _[I want to come back home](https://open.spotify.com/track/713N7OXprq4qwtKTbv8cFX?si=giDG8w0eSuSgsN-qZnD8VQ) _— he opens his eyes, only to meet Louis’. He wonders if the other man’s been staring at him this whole time, and if he should feel embarrassed about that strange moment of vulnerability he just showed him.

But there’s no malice, no amusement in the blue of Louis’ eyes. Only curiosity.

“Do you know what they’re rapping about?” he asks, his voice quiet enough not to disturb the song.

“Yeah. I asked a friend of mine to translate the whole album for me,” Zayn explains, his voice equally as low. “They’re a duo of rappers. Two brothers. That’s the title of their album, actually. _[Deux Frères](https://open.spotify.com/album/0VbjQH6iXN5VdE0OX35cpD?si=-17mjjl5TRu0ZQogGG7Lag) _. It’s all about how they grew up in poor neighbourhoods, had to deal to make ends meet, and eventually saved enough money to invest it into their music. And then, they got really popular in France, like. They never signed with a label or anything, always did everything on their own terms. That's sick, in my opinion.”

Louis nods, and he doesn’t look completely bored, so Zayn continues: “Anyway, this album is about… this dichotomy between poverty and wealth, anonymity and fame. How now, even though they’ve got everything they could’ve ever asked for, they’re still nostalgic for old times. How, weirdly, they want to go back to the past. How they feel like they lost themselves, by doing the very thing they thought would give them purpose.”

“Rapping?”

“Writing.”

Zayn gets up and walks to the window, opening it and breathing in the cold and polluted air. His heart is beating like crazy, and he knows he’s starting to panic. Why the hell did he tell all that to Louis? Now there’s no way he hasn’t caught on something.

He hears rustling behind him, and suddenly, Louis is standing right next to him, tapping his fingertips on the windowsill along to the rhythm.

“So… You write?”

“Yeah.” Zayn’s answer comes out with the last exhale from his cigarette.

“What do you write?” Louis asks. Of course. Why _wouldn’t_ he ask?

Zayn shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“But…”

Zayn cuts him. “Look, we’re not talking about your films, so let’s not talk about my writing, yeah?”

Louis raises his hands in defence.

“Okay, okay. Sorry I even asked. You make me nosy, I guess,” he adds with a smile.

“It’s a good quality to have.” 

Zayn stubs out his cigarette on the window frame, and Louis does the same. Their fingers brush again, and Zayn really wants to grab Louis’ hand, see if his slenders fingers fit as perfectly between his own as he imagines they would. But that’s a stupid thought.

Yeah, Louis might be attracted to him, but that’s all there is to it. And the last thing Zayn needs right now is to hook up with a Hollywood star who’s leaving for Japan the next day, and who probably wouldn’t be interested in seeing Zayn again anyway.

He closes the window, and turns back towards Louis, looking down at the floor as he says:

“Well, guess you must get going now. Probably still got some stuff to sort out before you leave tomorrow, right?”

“Not really, no. Me flight’s not until the afternoon, anyway. So I could stay until the end of the album?” Louis suggests, biting his lip.

And really, who is Zayn to say no?

“It’s a long one,” he points out instead.

“All the better.”

Maybe there’s a slight flush on Louis’ cheeks. But the room is cold now, and Zayn convinces himself that’s the explanation for it.

They spend the next hour sprawled on the floor. At some point, Zayn fully lies down and closes his eyes, feeling Louis do the same next to him.

He could be high, but he’s not. Not high on weed, anyway. 

Sometimes, Louis hums along to the more catchy choruses, and it breaks Zayn’s heart a little. He’s reminded of growing up in Bradford, of the Wednesday afternoons spent in Liam’s bedroom, smoking and listening to anything they could get their hands on, until Zayn would inevitably doze off and Liam would shake him awake hours later, because his mum had come home and Zayn had to go back to his parents’ for dinner.

When the album ends with the line _[Less feelings, more money](https://open.spotify.com/track/4LeI9bVgG1tLJV0OmPBGie?si=Md5ihkytSw2l-RHptaA73Q) _—he distinctly remembers it from the translation—he keeps his eyes closed, wanting to prolong the illusion of still being in England, with his best mate by his side and no worries in the world.

But it’s not Liam’s familiar voice who interrupts his daydreaming.

“I wanna dance,” Louis declares, so Zayn finally comes back to his Brooklyn flat, and the weird situation he’s found himself in.

“I don’t think I have any danceable music,” he answers, turning his head to look at Louis.

His face and lips are too close for his own sake, so he sits up abruptly, the sudden gesture making him dizzy.

Still lying down, Louis raises an eyebrow and says:

“No, I meant, I wanna _go_ dancing, like, to a club. I know a nice place, not too far from here, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Wanna come?”

“I don’t really dance,” Zayn argues, but he already knows he’s going to say yes.

He’s exhausted, his head is still pounding slightly, his arm is starting to hurt as well, and he has another morning shift tomorrow, but of course he’s going to say yes.

“Just to take in the atmosphere, then,” Louis insists. “Might inspire you for your writing, or whatever.”

Zayn stays silent, wanting to drag this out just a bit longer, to see what Louis is willing to say to get him to come.

“C’mon, Zayn, it’s gonna be fun. They play rap, sometimes. Also, did I mention it’s a gay club?”

“So?” Zayn snorts. “You seem to think I’m gay, but I never said anything about it.”

“Aren’t ya?” Louis smirks.

Zayn chuckles and answers: “I’m bi, actually.”

“Cool. So, shall we?”

Louis gets up on his feet, stumbling in the process and pretending like it didn’t happen, which endears Zayn beyond measure. Then, he extends his hand to help Zayn stand up as well, and after waiting five seconds for good measure, Zayn takes it, adding: “Only if we grab something to eat first. I’m starving.”

🌇🌇🌇

They end up at Zayn’s favourite kebab place—he might be going there a bit too often, actually. But Louis seems excited.

“Man, I hadn’t eaten in that kind of place since I left England!”

“When was that?” Zayn inquires. 

There’s other stuff that he’s dying to ask about, like how Louis is dealing with all these people staring at him right now. But it seems that not bringing up Louis’ fame is part of their pact, and Zayn intends to follow it, even if his curiosity is hard to keep at bay.

“Er…” Louis chews and frowns, looking like he’s having a hard time figuring out the answer. “I guess 8 years ago now? I’m 26, and I moved to LA when I was 18.”

“Did you like it?”

“LA? Nah, mate, it was horrible. That’s why I moved here, like, a year later. It’s a little annoying because I still have to go to California quite often, but at least I don’t have to be there unless I’ve a good reason to.”

Zayn nods.

“So you like New York better?”

“I love it,” Louis says, and there’s some sauce spilling on his chin. Zayn wants to leak it off, but of course, _of course_ , he’s not going to. Can’t, actually, for more than one reason. “I mean,” Louis continues, “where else would I make a guy fall off his bike, then eat kebab with him 24 hours later, d’you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” Zayn answers distractedly, his eyes still lingering on Louis’ chin.

Fuck. Maybe he’s more whipped than he’d realised.

He knows he's got to say something right now, or else he’ll start dwelling on that thought, and imagining scenarios that would never happen even in a million years.

“So… What kind of music do you like?”

It’s totally lame. Even 14-year-old Zayn must have done better when he went on his first date with one of Doniya’s friends. But at the same time, Zayn _is_ interested in the answer. Because there’s two kinds of people in the world according to him: those with good music taste, and the rest.

Louis takes his time before speaking, and Zayn is getting worried he’s going to answer something bland like Radiohead, or “a bit of everything”. Or worse, maybe he’s going to admit he doesn’t listen to music. Then Zayn would have no choice but walk out of the restaurant and forget all about Louis Tomlinson. 

“Er… sorry, I’m having a hard time deciding who my favourite artists actually are,” Louis eventually answers. “Guess I grew up listening to a lot of Britpop so it’s like… me first love. And then, I've got these phases where I’m completely infatuated with an album for a few weeks, until I move on to something else.”

Zayn is at a conversational crossroads. He could go on questioning Louis about his music habits, and it’s tempting—talking about music always is. But then… It would be stupid to ignore the bait that’s hidden inside Louis’ words. So he gives in to it easily.

“Is that how you are with people as well?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Louis winks.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t desperate for me to ask. The way you worded it… It wasn’t a coincidence.”

Zayn’s remark seems to take Louis by surprise, and after a few seconds, he admits:

“I didn’t do it consciously. But maybe you’re right. Guess I have to watch what I say around you.”

They’re done eating now, so they get up from the table and Louis helps Zayn put his coat back on, in practiced gestures like he’s done it his whole life. When he’s finished, he looks straight at Zayn’s eyes, and with his hands still holding the sides of his jacket, he declares:

“To answer your question, I do get very infatuated with people. But it usually lasts longer than a few weeks, and moving on is the hardest thing in the world.”

🌇🌇🌇

Zayn is at the bar, ignoring his increasingly ringing ears and drinking in the way Louis is glowing under the lights, eyes closed and hips swinging. There’s strangers all around, brushing past but not quite touching him, like they’re subconsciously aware of his aura, his damn aura that’s been blinding Zayn for over a day now, even when he wasn’t in Louis’ presence, even when he was sleeping, even when he didn’t want anything to do with him.

Zayn grabs his glass and drinks the entire cocktail in one go, wincing at how sweet it is, and immediately feeling the sugar rush through his body. Suddenly he wants to get up and join Louis under the lights, dance as close to him as possible, take in all his warmth before it’s too late, before he irremediably leaves tomorrow and forgets all about Zayn.

“You should go dance,” the bartender shouts at him, making him jump. “Who knows how many nights we have left.”

“What do you mean?” Zayn shouts back, putting his glass down on the counter.

“You know… With the virus and everything… Wouldn’t be surprised if we had to close this place soon,” they explain.

Zayn sighs. He knows they’re right, and this added urgency is the final push that makes him ask for one last shot, before he stands up, resolutely turns towards all these people, and starts walking, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until he’s right in front of Louis, who’s now got his eyes wide open, and Zayn doesn’t know anymore whether he’s drowning into a deep blue ocean or swimming along the turquoise music.

But it doesn’t matter, because whatever’s happening right now, and whatever might be happening soon, he’s having this moment with Louis. They’re dancing together, and it’s somehow the simplest thing in the world. 

Zayn doesn’t believe in fate, he truly doesn’t, but maybe he’ll make an exception for tonight, because how else would he explain this rationally, this bumping in his chest and these tears threatening to fall and mix up with his sweat, as Louis smiles at him like _that_ and moves impossibly closer, until the song fades into a slower one, and Zayn closes his eyes, finally reaching out for Louis and burying his nose in the crook of his shoulder, swaying with him for what feels like hours, breathing him in and in and in, desperate to forget about the past, the world, and everything in between.

🌇🌇🌇

They walk back to Zayn’s place, hours later. Zayn is tipsy but he knows Louis isn’t, because he hasn’t drunk all night. He wonders if it’s because he’s going to drive back home, or if there’s something else lying under it. He could ask, but he doesn’t trust himself to be tactful right now.

The night is cold—it’s starting to snow again, and Zayn is so sick of it already. He hadn’t quite realised New York’s climate was like that. Maybe he’s the one who should have moved to LA, after all. Then he wouldn’t have to endure this feeling that the fingers of his free hand are going to freeze and fall off, even when they’re buried in the large pocket of his winter coat—the one Niall constantly teased him about, saying it made him look like a rich old lady. Zayn sighs, thinking that Niall probably knows who Louis is. What would he say if he knew they’re walking together right now, passing a cigarette back and forth and catching the other by the arm when he almost slips on the black ice? But there’s no way to know what Niall would say, of course. They haven’t talked since Zayn left England.

“You alright?” Louis asks, interrupting his thoughts, but maybe it’s for the best.

“Yeah. Was just thinking about a friend, back home,” Zayn admits, knowing the alcohol is to blame for his sincerity.

“You miss it? Home?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says, not because he doesn’t want to answer, but because he truly doesn’t know how he feels. He’s only been here for a couple of months, anyway. Surely it’s too soon to be missing the old country already?

“I missed home like crazy when I first moved here,” Louis tells him earnestly, like it’s easy to be that honest. “Still do, sometimes. It’s not a constant thing anymore, just like… these flashes of people and places that appear to me at the most random times. I always try to figure out if there’s something that triggered them, but I don’t think there is. Guess it’s a potent thing, home. Always buried somewhere underneath, ready to mess you up when you least expect it.”

Sometime during his little monologue, they stopped walking, and now they’re standing under the neon sign of a Japanese restaurant. _How fitting_ , Zayn thinks, a wave of melancholy spreading inside of him as he’s reminded these are the last few minutes they’re getting to spend together—his building is right around the corner.

“Are you sure _you’re_ not the writer here?” he eventually replies, a perfect replica of Louis’ remark the day before.

Louis chuckles at this, and Zayn can almost picture his laugh fading away in the purple glow.

“It’s so weird,” he says, stepping closer to Zayn, who’s got his back against the brick wall now, because otherwise he’s not sure he’d be able to stand—there’s so much going on, and he’s not used to it anymore.

“What’s weird?” he asks breathlessly, stealing the cigarette from Louis to take one last puff.

“You and I. We hardly know each other, and yet…” Louis’ voice trails off as he watches Zayn stub out the cigarette against the brick wall.

“And yet?”

Louis doesn’t answer, just keeps on staring at him with seriousness and a hint of curiosity in his eyes. Zayn does his best to hold his gaze, and not look at Louis’ lips instead. For once, his brain is completely silent—there’s no commentary, no half-formed line, no pieces of dialogues to distract him from the moment. Just the familiar whisper of his tinnitus, and the sound of his heart beating fast in his ears.

“Can I see you again?” Louis asks suddenly.

Zayn expected this, but he also didn’t. He’s rarely felt that lost, not even when he landed at JFK in January with no idea of what he was going to do, beyond catching a train to the city.

“I… I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” he stutters.

“Why not?” Louis retorts, and it’s unfair that he’s sober for this and Zayn’s not.

Zayn turns his head slightly, just enough to look at the empty road past Louis’ head.

His mind is going two-hundred miles a second, going through all the reasons why he shouldn’t give in to Louis, why he should just walk away and forget all about their meeting. But how can he explain to Louis that the very reason why he moved here is also the reason why he can’t do this? How fucked up would that be, to tell him: “Sorry, I can’t deal with this. It’s not you, it’s your fame.” Zayn just can’t, and he hates himself for getting into this situation, even though he knows it’s not his fault. 

Maybe fate does exist, after all, but then she’s got a sick sense of humour.

“You and I… It wouldn’t make sense,” is what he ends up blurting out.

Louis shakes his head.

“Who cares about making sense?”

Zayn closes his eyes, his resolve wearing thinner and thinner as he hears Louis breathe slowly, still too close for his own sake. The moment stretches out, just like his reservations. Soon, all they seem to be in his mind are blurry shapes.

When he opens his eyes again, his resolve has disappeared into thin air, along with what remained of the cigarette’s smoke.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll show you nonsensical. Just once.”

And he closes the gap between them, finally pressing his lips on Louis’, who takes the kiss in stride. It’s heated immediately. They both know there won’t be another occasion, not only because Louis is leaving, but because the world is walking straight into a trap, and neither of them can escape it. But in the meantime, Zayn is taking as much as he can, hungry for every touch, every part, every second of it, even when he can hardly feel his mouth and his fingers anymore, and they’re both getting too breathless and cold for it to be really comfortable. 

It’s only when a police car drives by them quickly with its deafening siren that they finally pull apart slightly, Louis’ fingers still buried in Zayn’s hair while Zayn’s free hand is cupping his cheek.

Louis comes to rest his forehead on Zayn’s, smiles sadly, and whispers:

“Just once, then?”

Zayn can already feel his own heart start to break into as many parts as the number of minutes he got to spend with Louis, but he still answers:

“I’m sorry. It’s for the best, I think.”

Louis tuts.

“I’m not sure I quite agree. But I’m not going to force you into something you don’t want.”

 _It’s not that I don’t want this_ , Zayn almost argues, but it wouldn’t help his case.

He came to NYC, left his whole life behind for a reason, he reminds himself. He can’t put it all to risk because of what might end up being just a fling.

So he forces himself to let go of Louis, both physically and emotionally.

“Thank you,” he says, stumbling over his words, and struggling to look at Louis. “Really. For… everything. What just happened, I mean, meeting you… It means a lot to me. Truly.”

Louis stays silent for a moment, then quietly answers:

“It means a lot to me too. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He takes a step back, and instead of giving Zayn more space to breathe, this sudden distance between them is suffocating him.

“I don't think walking you back to your door would be a good idea, so… I’m gonna go.”

Louis is looking at him like he’s waiting for Zayn to hold him back, and as much as Zayn is dying to, he knows he won’t, because if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s making himself and everyone else in his life miserable.

“Bye, Louis,” he says, drinking in the colour of his eyes one last time. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“You too, Zayn,” Louis says, then adds with a smirk: “Promise me you’ll be more careful on your bike from now on.”

Zayn lets out a chuckle, but it’s bittersweet.

“I thought the accident was your fault.”

“Accident…” Louis repeats, starting to walk away. “It’s a nice word for this whole thing, innit?” he points out, turning to look at Zayn, already standing a few feet away from him. “And I guess we’re both to blame for it.”

Zayn nods.

“Guess we are.”

Louis smiles at him, and Zayn hates him for it, because he already knows he’s going to spend hours thinking about that smile, trying and failing to catch the perfect words to describe it. Then Louis turns away, and disappears around a corner a few seconds later, while Zayn is still under that damn neon sign, wondering how on Earth he managed to fuck up the last bits of peace of mind he had left.

When he gets back to his flat, he ignores the two empty glasses sitting by his bed and goes straight into the bathroom, debating whether he should wank the night off or try to disappear down the shower drain, or both. But then, he takes a look at himself in the dirty mirror, and starts laughing almost hysterically, because he’d completely forgotten he’s been wearing Louis’ clothes all day, and they’re still here, clinging to his sweaty skin, reminding him that he’s _not_ going to be able to forget about this any time soon.

Maybe Louis won’t either, though, because Zayn also left his own clothes at his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry 😬  
> I'll see you next week with possibly the angstiest chapter 😌


	3. Good at being alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been following this!! I love to read your comments 🥰  
> Fair warning that this chapter is pretty heavy on the angst (and next chapter will be too)

_March 2020 – May 2020_

The next few weeks go by like a blur. At times, Zayn feels ecstatic about what happened, about the most exhilarating experience he’s ever had of meeting someone. But then, ecstasy turns into regret, because why the fuck did he let Louis go? Why didn’t he ask for his number, at the very least? He knows why, of course, even knows it’s for the best, but still. They could have been something. He feels it in his guts.

There’s one thing in particular that he can’t get out of his head, and that’s what Louis told him about finding it almost impossible to move on from someone. Zayn didn’t tell Louis back then, but he’d recognised himself in these words. There’s only a handful of people he has truly fallen in his life, and even now, months or years after the fact, he thinks he might still be a bit in love with each and everyone of them. And even though what happened with Louis was close to nothing—an accident—he’s still in this list, and Zayn wonders if Louis feels that way too, if this short time they spent together was significant enough for him to obsess over it the way Zayn does. 

The thing is, it’s never been as intense as this, and he doesn’t know what to do to stop it. The fact that Louis’ clothes are taunting him, even locked up in his closet, isn’t helping. He tries going out, hooking up with strangers in the half-lit back rooms of clubs while the bass from the speakers and the other person’s hands overwhelm him, but all he gets from it is waking up the next day with his ears ringing louder and his heart feeling sicker. 

All of this doesn’t last long, though, because just like they’d all been expecting and fearing, Covid hits England then New York like a deflagration in mid-March.

🌇🌇🌇

One morning—what feels like the _last_ morning—he gets a call from his mum at work. They haven’t properly spoken in months, but she cuts straight to the point, trying to convince him to come back to England before it’s too late. He has to tell her no, arguing that it wouldn’t be safe, that it would put them and other people at risk. What he doesn’t say is that, as much as he’s missing his family, as much as he’s feeling scared and miserable right now, he doesn’t _want_ to go back home. Because he’s nowhere near ready to face them, and the consequences of what he’s done. 

When he hangs up the phone, he starts sobbing on the couch in the back room, while Harry stands in the doorway, not daring to get closer and comfort him because of those two feet that are apparently going to rule their lives from now on. 

That afternoon, Harry tells him he shouldn’t come back to work for the time being, until they figure out how to deal with all of this. They say goodbye, both with tears in their eyes, and no idea when or even _if_ they’ll see each other again.

For once, Zayn walks back to his flat, feeling sickly fascinated by the way every stranger he sees looks so lost and defeated, even as the sun is shining for the first time in weeks. When he passes by Tompkins Square Park, he carefully avoids looking at the spot where he met Louis, a lifetime ago. He almost runs the rest of the way, suddenly dying to lock himself in his flat, and pretend he’s in some kind of bubble where nothing but he and the music exist.

He’s a bit relieved that at least, he’s back in touch with his family now, even if it’s because of shitty reasons. He FaceTimes them the next morning and they all carefully avoid mentioning sensitive topics, but focus on the crisis. Nothing else seems to matter now, anyway.

“What are you gonna do, all by yourself in your tiny place?” his dad asks.

“Write, probably,” Zayn shrugs. “That’s what I came here to do, innit?”

They nod, but don’t seem very convinced that inspiration is going to strike in these weird conditions, and to be honest, Zayn isn’t either.

“Did you have time to make friends here?” Waliyha asks. “Not that it would change anything, I guess…”

“Yeah, a few,” Zayn replies evasively. He doesn’t want to tell them that the only people he’s had a real conversation with ever since he arrived are his boss and a Hollywood actor. “Don’t worry about me, I’m good at being alone.”

His mum looks even _more_ worried at hearing these words, and Zayn sighs.

“Don’t close yourself off from the rest of the world, honey,” she pleads, seemingly not realising the irony in her statement. “Maybe you should take this as an opportunity to call Liam or Niall? I’m sure they’d love t–”

“Mum, please…” Zayn cuts her off. “Just let me deal with this, alright? I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, hon,” she answers with a bittersweet smile, and Zayn feels like such an asshole right now, to think that his own selfish needs are making her so sad.

Thankfully, his dad diverts the conversation to what’s happening at his workplace, and a few excruciating minutes later, they end the call.

Zayn wants to punch something, or grab his laptop and buy a ticket for the next flight to London. But he knows it’s not sensible, and it wouldn’t necessarily make things better anyway. So instead, he fumbles through his piles of CDs to find [_Yeezus_](https://open.spotify.com/album/7D2NdGvBHIavgLhmcwhluK?si=sW6AjwVkQuigyf27Sl2-sQ) and puts it on blast, thriving in the painful loudness until the next-door neighbour starts hitting on his wall, shouting at him to turn the volume down.

🌇🌇🌇

He spends the next few days in a constant state of panic. 

There’s the problem of not having a job anymore—he knows he needs to deal with it as soon as possible, find some online gig, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the news websites he’s checking compulsively, immersing himself in graphs, numbers, and contradictory statements. All day long, he’s either got his eyes glued to his laptop, or staring longingly out the window, down at the depressingly empty street, wondering how many people in the world are doing the exact same thing right now.

He knows he’s eating, but hardly pays attention to it. He goes to bed insanely early, because what else is there to do? He doesn’t sleep, though, just stares at the ceiling for hours on hand, not listening to rap for once but to The Cure's [_Disintegration_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRQ3irjdpDw) on repeat, just because he thinks the title is a perfect summary of everything that’s happening. Lying there and shivering in the dark, he tries to forget about Covid and come up with a story instead, but it’s like his imagination is on lockdown too. 

His mother insists on calling him everyday, and it’s a bit of a relief to discuss the situation at length with her, compare the information they’ve got, and try to reassure each other that everything’s going to be okay.

The fact that he’s hardly sleeping must be evident, though, as one morning, a week into lockdown, she suddenly says:

“You don’t seem to be doing well, sweetie.”

“Of course I’m not, mum,” he scoffs. “We’re living through a pandemic, and I’m fucking depressed. And scared shitless.” He pauses, then sighs. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have cursed.”

Her pixelated face sends him a sad smile.

“It’s alright, love. But… have you thought about what I told you the other day? About calling the boys? I think you need to talk to someone other than your mother, Zaynie. It would do you some good.”

He doesn’t reply immediately, taking the time to consider his mum’s suggestion in earnest. The thing is, pandemic or not, things between him and Liam are so fucked right now that he doubts he could just call him and reconnect like nothing’s happened. Liam probably doesn’t even want to talk to him, anyway—it’s better to wait until _he_ decides to contact Zayn. If he ever does. Niall, on the other hand...

“Guess I could try calling Niall,” he mumbles.

His mum nods, and he’s grateful she doesn’t try to prod him further about Liam.

When they hang up, he finally feels motivated to do something else but check the news. Maybe it’s time to start looking for a new job. As for Niall… he’ll call him tomorrow.

🌇🌇🌇

He ends up not calling Niall the next day. Because two things happen.

First, he suddenly thinks about the language school he used to work for back in uni, teaching English part-time. They’re located in England, of course, but he figures it doesn’t matter, since they must have switched to online classes. So he emails them, asking if they remember him and if they’re looking for teachers.

He receives an answer sometime during the night: they do remember him, and they actually have a couple of high school students looking for English tutoring. It’s not much, only a few hours a week, but Zayn tells himself it’s better than nothing, and with any luck, he might get more students down the road.

Since he’s not sleeping anyway, he decides to start looking up resources to prepare his classes, and ends up on YouTube. The app’s homepage is loading slowly and he’s huffing with impatience, his arm getting progressively numb from holding his phone over his head. And that’s when the second thing happens.

The page finishes loading, and he almost drops his phone, because he’s suddenly attacked with the all-too familiar face of Louis Tomlinson in the miniature of the first video, which is trending, apparently. And it makes sense—its title is a perfect example of clickbaiting.

_Louis Tomlinson reveals where he’s spending quarantine in exclusive Zoom interview!_

And even though Zayn can already guess where Louis is, even though he’s trying not to think about him anymore, even though he’s been resisting googling his name for weeks now, even though he knows this is a bad bad bad idea, he clicks on the video. He tells himself it’s because it’s 3 a.m. and he’s too exhausted to realise what he’s doing, but deep down, he knows he’s just being weak. Weak, and desperate to see Louis and hear his voice again.

The whole five minutes of the video are a blur. He hardly hears what Louis is saying—something about being stuck in Japan and the project he was filming being put on hold. But Zayn only focuses on the way Louis’ lips are moving when he speaks, the way his eyes are smiling when he’s silent, and the fact that he’s wearing the same sweater he was wearing that night in February.

In a trance-like state, Zayn drops his phone on the mattress. He leaves his bed and sits at his desk, opening his laptop and searching for the video with trembling hands, putting it on full screen and fast-forwarding until he reaches the part where Louis is smiling in the exact same way he smiled at him before turning away and disappearing, leaving him under that neon sign. Zayn presses the spacebar and stares at the screen for what feels like hours, carefully studying every tiny detail of Louis’ face, until he feels like he could paint it with his eyes closed.

He takes a screenshot for the sake of it, then closes the tab and opens a blank document, something he hasn’t done in weeks. Then, he starts writing.

🌇🌇🌇

Zayn had a clear plan when he moved to NYC: use the city and its inhabitants to write that book he’d been thinking about for years. In his mind, it was a collection of short stories, all following a different character over the course of one month, in different parts of the city. There would have been 12 stories to cover a full year, and maybe some of the protagonists would have ended up meeting or something—he wasn’t really clear on the details. But the plan was for him to explore the city, watch all of these strangers on the streets, in cafes, and on public transportation, pick one who inspired him, observe them as much as he could, and write a story about them, also in the course of one month. Then repeat, and repeat, and repeat, until he was done with all 12 of them.

But when he arrived in New York, it took him longer than he’d expected to find his bearings. Then, when he finally did, he didn’t know how and where to start, then that thing with Louis happened, and then Covid put the final nail in his project's coffin. 

And now here he is, stuck in his flat and not following his plan at all, because from what he can tell, he’s frantically—or at least, as frantically as his impaired arm allows him—writing a full novel about one character only, and that character is not even inspired by someone he’s only watched from afar, but someone he got to know pretty intimately—granted, over the course of two nights only. 

It’s insane, and he shouldn’t be doing this. Because, even if what he’s writing is fiction, it’s based on Louis, or rather, on Zayn’s perception of Louis, and that’s undeniable. Casual readers might not realise it, but Zayn knows it, and Louis would know it too, if he ever was to read it. Therefore, it’s unpublishable. And in a way, that’s why Zayn carries on writing it. Because he’s doing it for himself, and he can’t even remember the last time he wrote something without intending to share it with an audience. Plus, it’s helping him pass the time between FaceTimes, classes, and cautious outings to the grocery store. He’s also checking the news less and less often, and is finally starting to sleep better. And somehow, he feels like writing about a fictional version of Louis helps him let go of the real one. In any case, he hasn’t watched that interview again, nor has he tried finding other ones. For all he’s concerned, Louis Tomlinson exists only in his brain.

So, maybe writing this book is not the most ethical idea he’s ever had, but he’s finally starting to feel like he’s gaining back control of his life, and surely, it can’t be that bad.

🌇🌇🌇

He tries skyping Niall eventually, a few weeks into lockdown. He’s settled into a routine by now: get up, exercise, eat, give classes or write, eat, write, eat, write, sleep. Insert calling his family and going to the store once or twice a week, plus the exceptional trip to the doctor’s to finally get his cast removed, and there you have it. Zayn’s brand new, Covid-free life. The worst thing is, it’s not the most miserable he’s ever been. He’s actually feeling pretty grand, but knows it’s solely due to how much he’s writing.

Still, when Niall’s face appears on the screen after a few stressful seconds where Zayn wasn’t sure he’d answer, he’s happy to be faced with something else than a Word document for once.

In other circumstances, Niall would have already been exclaiming a loud “Hello stranger!”, or teasing him about his hair, which is getting out of control. But of course, things are a bit strained between them these days.

“Hey,” Niall says hesitantly, and Zayn hadn’t realised how much he’d been missing his voice until now. 

“Thanks for answering, I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

It breaks his heart a little, to be making these kinds of polite statements, because since when have they cared about politeness? But it feels necessary, for some reason.

“‘F course you’re not interrupting anything, I’m bored out of my mind, mate,” Niall chuckles. “Actually, you’re a perfect distraction. Tell me everything you’ve been up to, please, and I mean _everything_.”

And somehow, that’s all it takes for Zayn to feel like nothing’s happened, like they just talked yesterday, instead of ignoring each other for months. But maybe he should have expected it. That’s just the way Niall is, after all. And Niall has always been his favourite audience—Liam excepted, of course.

So, since they’ve got time, and since Zayn’s been missing recounting stories out loud, he decides to tell Niall about everything: the good, the bad, and the in-between. And somehow, all three things include what happened with Louis.

It’s a relief to finally tell someone about it. He watches Niall’s eyes go wide the moment he mentions Louis’ name, and it’s weird, thinking that one of his best mates knows who Louis is already, but not in the same way Zayn does. He recounts their meeting in detail, and Niall doesn’t interrupt him once. His face remains neutral throughout, which worries Zayn a bit, because he’s usually much easier to read. At some point, he even wonders if the image is frozen, until Niall blinks, but keeps a straight face. 

When he’s done, and Niall still doesn’t react, Zayn asks a timid: “So… You have nothing to say?”

This finally seems to bring Niall back to life, and he scoffs.

“I just… don’t even know where to start, lad. But just to confirm, you’ve met Louis Tomlinson, you two had some kind of wild chemistry going, and you didn’t fuck? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“It’s not always about fucking, Horan,” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Um, excuse me, but when we’re talking about Louis Tomlinson, yes it is. He’s like… a queer sex symbol, mate, I can’t believe you let this opportunity pass… Wait until I tell Liam about it, he’s gonna be so sho–”

Niall suddenly interrupts himself, and sends him an apologetic look.

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to talk about Liam,” Zayn sighs.

He knew they’d have to breach the subject at some point, they might as well do it now. Leave one sensitive topic for another.

“Good,” Niall nods, suddenly getting serious in a way Zayn has rarely seen him be. “Because I have to tell you something, about Liam and I.”

“Liam and you?” Zayn repeats, already guessing where this is going. He’d have to have been blind not to see the way his two best mates have been pining for each other all these years.

“Yeah, we… We actually decided to quarantine together, thought it’d be easier than being on our lonesomes. And, er… One thing led to another, you know how it is. Or maybe you don’t apparently. Anyway, we’re together now.”

“ _Together_ together?” Zayn confirms.

“Yep.”

There’s a beat, then Zayn smiles.

“That’s amazing, Ni.”

“Really? You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I dunno, everything’s just so… complicated, I guess. Between you and Liam, I mean. You know, for the longest time, back when I met you two, I actually thought you were together. Or sleeping together, at the very least. I truly thought you were lying when you said you were just friends.”

Zayn laughs. He’s heard that one before, obviously, but he would have never guessed Niall himself was one of those people who were confused about his and Liam’s relationship.

“Nah, mate. I mean, I’m sure he’s told you, but we’re like brothers. It’s never been like that between us, and to be honest, I’m pretty sure we would both die of embarrassment if it was. We know each other too well. So he’s all yours, truly. And I’m happy for you lot, it’s been a long time coming.”

“Cool,” Niall nods, then after a pause, he adds in a hesitant tone: “Look, I know it’s not really my business ‘cause it’s between you guys but… If you’re really like brothers, why don’t you try to make up?”

Zayn sighs. He was expecting this, of course, knew what he was getting himself into when he called Niall. And maybe some part of him was actually hoping that his friend would ask him this question. But another part of him is terrified of this conversation. Terrified of being brought back to what went down last year.

“I know we have to talk at some point,” he says eventually. “I know that, trust me. I just… I guess I’m afraid that it’s too early for me to reach out. That he’s still too mad at me to even want to talk to me. Which I’d understand. So I don’t know, I guess I’ve been waiting for him to make the first move.”

Niall shakes his head.

“He won’t, though. Much too stubborn for that. Look, in his mind, it’s you who’s at fault, so it’s you who needs to make things right. And I don’t mean to pressure you, but the longer you wait, the harder it’s gonna be for him to move past this mess. So please, just call him, yeah? He won’t reject you, I swear. All he wants is to forget about all this, and get his best mate back, but for that, you need to talk first.”

Just as Zayn is about to say “Okay, I’ll call him soon”, something shifts in Niall’s background, and a second later, Liam enters the room.

Zayn sees him freeze as soon as he takes a glance at the screen, and he seems to be about to turn around, so without thinking, Zayn calls:

“Leeyum, wait! Can we talk?”

Niall sends him an encouraging smile as Liam nods and slowly walks closer to the screen.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Niall mutters, and he exits the room, pressing a kiss to Liam’s temple in passing, which makes Zayn smile.

Liam replaces Niall in front of the screen, and Zayn takes a proper look at him. His hair is as long and curly as it was when he was 18, and it’s bittersweet to Zayn, that he’s not there to properly make fun of it.

“So…” he starts. “You and Niall, huh?”

Liam gives him a weak smile.

“Yep. It just… happened, I guess.”

“That’s good. I was just telling him I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks.”

Okay, so it seems that it’s up to Zayn to do all the work here. Which is only fair, but he still feels out of his depth. He’s never had to _try_ to talk to Liam. The one thing they always had for them was how easy it was to either speak or be silent together. How can he even go about reconnecting with his estranged best friend, especially when he’s the one who massively fucked up their relationship? 

Guess there’s only one way to start.

“I’m so sorry, Liam. Really.”

“About what?” Liam asks, and his voice is not exactly cold, but it’s not exactly friendly either.

“About the way I dealt with everything last year,” Zayn explains after taking a few seconds to think about it carefully. Damn, he really wishes he could have actually prepared for this conversation. “I realise now, I should have talked to you about my doubts from the beginning, instead of keeping everything locked up and spring all this on you without warning, and without giving you a choice.”

Liam doesn’t say anything for a while, seeming to replay Zayn’s words inside his head. Eventually, he asks:

“So you’re not sorry about leaving?”

Zayn almost laughs bitterly at this. Liam’s always been good at picking up on things he left unsaid.

“No. No, I’m not,” he admits, hoping Liam won’t hate him for it. “I told you back then, and I still believe it, that I needed to do this. To come here. Or not necessarily here, specifically, but somewhere else. I know it sounds selfish, but… I don’t know what to tell you, I don’t want to apologise for putting myself first for this. You know I live by that, and I think we should all live by that, when it comes to making those kinds of decisions. What I’m sorry for, really, is the way I was so tactless doing it. The truth is, at the time, I was feeling so trapped. Suffocating, like. And that’s why I recklessly decided to leave, without thinking of the consequences for you, or Niall, or even my family. I realised that I’d been unfair, as soon as I got on the plane, but by then it was too late to turn back.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to turn back, Zee,” Liam sighs. “I get it, alright? I can’t be mad at you for feeling the way you did, and wanting an out. I’m just disappointed you didn’t talk to me about it beforehands. And that you didn’t try to reach out for all these months. Especially if you regretted the way things went down. Even now, it feels like you wouldn’t have talked to me if I hadn’t interrupted you guys.”

“When you came in, I was just telling Niall that I’d call you soon, actually,” Zayn points out, but Liam doesn’t seem to quite believe him.

“Would you have?”

“Probably, yeah. But… you’re right. I should have done it months ago. I was just scared that I’d ruined our friendship, that you would never want to hear from me again. And I guess as long as I didn’t try, I’d never have to find out about it. But I’m so sorry, Liam. I’ve been so fucking stupid, in the way I’ve handled all of this. I don’t even know what I can say, or do, to make it better. And I miss you so much, yeah? Everytime I listen to something, I think of you, like. Doesn’t even matter who the artist is, music just reminds me of you.”

There’s a beat, then Liam starts to smirk.

“Knowing your listening habits, that sounds exhausting. Must be thinking about me about 16 hours a day, huh?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Zayn answers with a smile.

Liam returns it, and it’s an earnest smile, this time. Maybe it’s not much, but Zayn still takes it as a victory.

“Have you been writing?” he asks after a few seconds, wondering if it’s a strategic mistake, but too curious to bite his tongue.

Liam sighs. Shit.

“You know full well I can’t write without you.” 

Zayn hates to hear that, hates to hear Liam’s self-deprecating tone, as well as the blame hidden under his words, even if he does deserve some of it.

“I think you’d be surprised, if you tried,” he answers. In other circumstances, he would have pushed Liam way harder than that, until his friend momentarily forgot about his inferiority complex and accepted to give writing alone a try. But they’re not really back there yet.

“Whatever,” Liam shrugs, then, after a pause: “Have you? Been writing?”

Zayn bites his lip.

“Yeah, but it’s not… I’ll keep my promise, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Liam shakes his head. “Is it that book you’ve been talking about, then?”

“Not exactly. I mean, it’s a book alright, but I ended up focusing on just one character.”

“Care to tell me more about it?”

So, for the second time of the day, Zayn ends up recounting his meeting with Louis, but he doesn’t stop there, doesn’t give Liam time to react, just carries on telling him about how Louis is the basis for the main character of his book and its whole story, and how he knows he’ll never publish it, but still can’t help writing it, like he’s under some kind of spell.

“What do you think?” he asks a little bashfully when he’s done.

Liam takes his time to answer, but when he does, it’s more than Zayn had expected.

“I think that thing that happened with Tomlinson—I mean, Louis—is batshit crazy, and it makes sense you got inspired by it. I think what’s happening in the world is crazy too, and it makes sense you’re finding an escape in writing this book. I think you’ve always done whatever the hell you want anyway, and if writing this story is what you aspire to, then you should go for it. Forget about what may or may not come out of it. The future doesn’t even exist anymore, right? So do it. And I’m sure it’s amazing too.”

Zayn is taken aback by how much Liam’s words touch him.

“Thank you. You know I value your opinion more than anything in the world, right?”

“If you say so,” Liam replies in a detached way, but even with the shitty image quality, Zayn can see he’s blushing a little.

“I wish we could hug it out right now,” he admits, then decides to take his chance. “I wish you would write, too. You don't give yourself enough credit for how good you are. You never needed me to write the absolute best lines I’ve ever heard in my life. I could send you a list. So please, tell me you’re not gonna give it up? It’d be a waste of talent, Liam, I’m serious.”

Liam ruffles his hand through his hair, in the exact way he used to back when they were in college.

“Fine. You send me that list, as well as a chapter from your book, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Attaboy,” Zayn smiles.

They hang up soon after, and Zayn falls down on his bed, emotionally exhausted, but so relieved he could sing.

There’s still some stuff they haven’t talked about yet. Questions that need to be asked, like whether Zayn is planning on ever coming back or not. But he figures they’ve got all the time in the world to get to them. And he’s got all the time in the world to find out how to answer them.

🌇🌇🌇

A week later, he gets a phone call from Harry, telling him that if he’s up for it, he can come back to work at the store part time.

Zayn hardly hesitates before saying yes. Sure, the idea of getting back into the real world while things are far from being resolved is nerve-wracking, but he’s tight on money, and by now he’s beginning to truly feel trapped in this little hell of a repetitive life. It will be good to interact with people outside of a screen, even if there’s two feet, two masks, and a plexiglas panel between them.

So he tells Harry he’ll be happy to come back whenever he needs him to, which ends up being the next day.

It’s hard not to go for a hug when he finally catches sight of his boss that morning. They’re not exactly close friends, but still, Zayn’s missed him, and he can’t help but smile brightly under his mask.

“I’m so happy to be back,” he confesses, and Harry’s eyes are smiling as well.

“I’m glad you are.”

They’ve talked over the phone a few times in the past weeks, so they more or less know what the other has been up to. Which is, not much on Zayn’s side—he hasn’t told Harry about his book, nor about writing in general. Harry, on his part, has been pretty busy trying to figure out the safety measures that would allow him to reopen the store. Which he has, as far as Zayn can tell. There’s a glass separating the two sides of the counter, and a strict mask and two-feet policy for both them and the customers.

“Wasn’t it too lonely for you?” Harry asks as they’re finishing unpacking boxes and setting up items in the aisles, a few minutes before the store opens. “I mean, I live with my partner, and it was still weirdly solitary, not to see anyone but them for weeks. So I can’t imagine what it must have been like, all by yourself.”

Zayn shrugs. The thing is, once he started writing, he never truly felt alone. The characters in his book are so real to him, it’s like they’ve been keeping him company.

“I managed,” he answers eventually. “Called family and friends quite a lot.”

“Back home?”

“Yeah.”

“I was thinking… You never really told me about them. Or about why you moved here,” Harry points out hesitantly.

“It’s a long story,” Zayn replies, averting his eyes and walking to the door to switch the sign from CLOSED to OPEN - 3 CUSTOMERS ONLY.

Harry hums.

“You know, I feel like we’re going to have a lot of slow days from now on. So if you ever want to tell me about it, I’m all ears.”

Zayn nods, considering taking up Harry on his offer. Now that he’s starting to make his peace with what happened last year, and that he and Liam are pretty much gone back to their normal relationship, it’s actually tempting to recount the story to someone else. To find out how an outsider would perceive it, and what they’d think of Zayn’s decision.

“If you’re really curious, I’ll tell you one day,” he says, joining Harry behind the counter, and careful to put a safe distance between them. “Just not right now, because I think you’re wrong about having slow days. There’s already a line-up outside.”

It turns out the store is as busy, or possibly even busier than it used to be. The main reason for it is that people are sending and receiving more packages than usual, and things are always a bit hectic in the morning, when they get a lot of parcels they have to find storage space for, until someone comes to pick it up.

It becomes a game between Zayn and Harry: trying to predict what type of person is going to come pick up each package, based on what they can read on the labels. Generally, it’s just books or clothes, and it’s hard to imagine specific scenarios for those, especially if the label isn’t descriptive. But at times, they get much more interesting ones: a magician set, a map of Antarctica, various types of small furniture items, a scuba diving set, three boxes of model lighthouses, etc. The person who comes to pick them up is never how they expected them to be, and Zayn’s writer brain is thriving. He’s falling back in love with people again, almost wants to go back to his initial project and forget about his book for a moment. But when he gets back home, he inevitably finds himself opening the document, which is getting close to 100 pages, and picking up right where he left off. 

Somehow, writing this book is as addictive as Louis’ mouth would have been if Zayn had allowed it to linger on his own a bit longer.

🌇🌇🌇

One morning, Harry chuckles “Mate, we’ve got a good one!” from the storage room.

“What is it?” Zayn asks distractedly. He just got an email from Liam, and it’s got an attachment. He wishes he could check it out right now, so Liam didn’t have to wait one more second for his feedback and praises, but he’s at work, so he turns off his phone with regret.

Harry emerges from the room holding a small parcel.

“I thought it was some kind of fancy sextoy at first, but then I realised it’s for dogs.”

“A sextoy for dogs?” Zayn asks, slightly horrified.

“No,” Harry snorts. “Just a regular toy. My mind was in the gutter when I read the label, I guess, but it’s still pretty funny.”

“And sweet too,” Zayn ponders. “I always wanted a dog,” he confesses. “And I think I’d totally be the type to order sophisticated toys too.”

Harry hums.

“So what do you think the customer will look like? I wanna say a young couple who made it official during quarantine, and the dog is a way to represent their commitment to each other.”

“Nah, you’re way off, H. It’s clearly a sweet old lady whose only companion is her aging dog, and she’s bought that toy as a parting gift before he dies.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Why do you always have to be so dark?”

“Life’s dark,” Zayn shrugs. “But there’s beauty in it, don’t you think?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Whatever. Let’s see what this lady would be called, then.” He turns over the parcel until he finds the right label, and in a split second, his eyes go wide and what’s visible of his face becomes noticeably paler. “You’re never going to believe this,” he whispers.

“What is it?” Zayn asks nonchalantly. Harry’s got a bit of a tendency to be overly dramatic at times.

“The recipient… It’s Louis Tomlinson.”

And just like clockwork, the doorbell rings, and a familiar silhouette steps into the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time you'll find out the whole truth about Zayn's past, I promise 😌 In the meantime, if anyone has a theory, I'm all ears 👀


	4. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dramaaaaa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you've been warned

_May 2020_

Zayn’s first instinct would be to duck under the counter, but he can’t possibly do that. First, because Harry is right next to him. Second, because Louis has already spotted him. Third, because he physically can’t take his eyes off the other man, off his visibly longer fringe, off the way the colour of his mask makes the blue of his eyes pop out even more than he remembered.

There’s no time to do anything, anyway, because Louis is already standing behind the glass, his voice asking “Zayn?” in disbelief.

“Hey,” Zayn breathes out.

As they stare at each other in silence, Zayn is suddenly overwhelmed with the weirdness of the world they live in now. When they spent time together, not three months ago, they didn’t have second thoughts about standing less than two feet apart, about visiting each other’s places, about kissing. Or if they did have second thoughts, they had nothing to do with preserving their lives and everyone else’s.

It’s just mad to think about how much has changed in so little time, and Zayn’s not sure he’d realised exactly _how_ mad until now.

Harry clears his throat, making Zayn jump back into reality. He glances at his boss, and surprise is clearly written all over his half-face.

“Er… This is Harry, my boss,” Zayn introduces awkwardly.

“Pleasure,” Louis nods politely, hardly turning his gaze away from Zayn.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Harry answers in a blank voice. “I’ll… Er… I have something to do in the storage room.”

He sends one last intrigued look at Zayn before disappearing in the back of the store, where Zayn knows he’ll be able to hear them anyway. Guess he’s in for a lengthy explanation later today.

Louis is still looking at him and runs a nervous hand through his hair, making it even messier than it already was.

“I, um… This is a coincidence, I swear. I didn’t know you worked here.”

“I know,” Zayn says. Pretty much nobody’s aware he’s got a job here. His parents don’t even know the exact address, so there’s no way _Louis_ could have found it out, even if he’d wanted to. Guess fate’s to blame for this one too. Fate, or this 2020 madness.

“How’ve you been?” Louis asks, and Zayn still can’t quite believe that he’s actually here, that he’s not just a figment of his too vivid imagination. He discreetly pinches the back of his hand, but nothing happens. Louis is still standing there.

“Good,” he replies belatedly. “Well, as good as can be, considering… everything.”

“Yeah,” Louis nods in understanding, and this prompts something in Zayn. Suddenly, he wants to make as much small talk as possible, even if it goes against his natural tendencies. Because he’s afraid Louis might leave if he doesn’t.

The first question that crosses his mind is: “You’re back from Japan, then?” He gets scared for a second, thinking he just betrayed himself, before remembering Louis had told him where he was going long before Zayn watched that YouTube video.

“Yeah, I came back about a week ago. Finally.”

Louis seems to be unwilling to say more on the issue, so Zayn wracks his brain for another course of action, and all he can find is: “Oh, you’re here for a package, right?”, already knowing it’s a mistake, because Louis might interpret it as him wanting to put an end to their encounter. So, he adds: “Harry and I, we sometimes look at the labels to find out what’s in the package, and try to figure out who they might be for.” 

He chances a look at Louis, wondering if he’ll be offended at what he just confessed. But he doesn’t seem to be bothered, letting out a quiet snort instead. 

Relieved, Zayn adds: “Didn’t know you had a dog”, reaching around the glass panel to give the box to Louis.

“She’s very new,” Louis explains with smiling eyes. “Got her as soon as I came back. Those weeks in Japan… They were so fucking lonely. I told meself I didn’t want to go through that again, so...”

“That’s good,” Zayn nods, trying to contain his surprise at how easily Louis admitted he’s been lonely. Zayn himself would never be able to, even if he did feel that way.

“I have to go back to her, actually,” Louis adds in an apologetic tone. “Left her alone at me flat for the first time, and I’m afraid she might do something stupid while I’m gone. But, um… I was happy to see you.”

“Me too,” Zayn replies without thinking about it, just because it’s the truth.

“Really?” Louis asks, sounding surprised.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Zayn answers.

Louis looks more nervous than he has through their little exchange so far.

“I don’t know, I guess… I’ve had a lot of time to think about what happened in February, and… I told myself maybe I’d pushed you too much back then.”

“You didn’t,” Zayn frowns. His memories from that night might be a little hazy because of the alcohol, but he knows for a fact Louis wasn’t being pushy. Not on the second night, anyway. Maybe Louis was a little—very—insistent about Zayn coming to his place that first night, but in retrospect, Zayn’s actually thankful for his determination to make him follow the doctor’s instructions. Maybe he did avoid the worst thanks to him.

“I mean, you said it was a bad idea for us to see each other again,” Louis points out. “So I guess that’s why I’m having a bit of a hard time believing you’re actually happy we ran into each other today.”

Zayn almost wants to confess that he regretted his words immediately, that he’s replayed that conversation in his mind countless times since then, imagining scenarios where he might have said yes instead of no, wondering where that would have left them. But he can’t possibly admit this to Louis now. Because it would sound pathetic and dramatic, and even though it does seem like Louis might care a little about him, maybe it’s actually only a matter of his pride getting hurt by Zayn’s half-hearted rejection.

“Listen,” he starts eventually, not even sure where he’s going with this. “The reason why I said this wasn’t because I didn’t like you, or I wasn’t interested in you, or whatever, but because things were complicated back then. And to be honest, they still are.”

“Complicated,” Louis repeats slowly with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Sorry, I’m sure they are, I just… Everything’s complicated these days anyway, innit?”

They’re full-on staring at each other now. Zayn’s thought about Louis’ eyes so many times over these last few weeks that, for a second, he needs to remind himself that he’s not talking to his character, but to the actual person who prompted his creation.

“True,” he eventually answers. “What’s your point?”

He knows he’s sounding a little abrasive, but he’s suddenly tired of their tiptoeing around each other. He needs to know what Louis is thinking. And Louis doesn’t seem to mind, as he answers:

“My point is, would you ever reconsider? Would you… I don’t know, join me on a socially distanced walk with Jo—that’s me dog—sometime this week?”

Zayn can’t help but snort.

“How romantic.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, yeah?” Louis shrugs. “On the romantic scale, I guess it still beats my almost killing you when we met.”

“I don’t know,” Zayn argues just for the sake of it. “This one makes for an interesting story.”

“Does that mean you wrote about it?” Louis asks.

Zayn blushes, grateful for the mask covering his cheeks. That’s _not_ what he meant, but Louis is hitting dangerously close to home.

“No. I just meant… in general.”

“Right.” Louis doesn’t seem to quite believe him, but lets it slide. “Anyway, what do you say?”

And really, there was never any question. Maybe Zayn was stupid and stubborn enough to let Louis go once, but he won’t make that same mistake twice.

“I say I get off from work at 2 everyday this week.”

It’s easy to spot the wide smile behind Louis’ mask, but then, he doesn’t seem to be repressing it one bit. And Zayn’s lips might be doing the exact same thing. 

🌇🌇🌇

The next day, he meets up with Louis in front of his building. Even though he can't come up to Louis' flat, it's still weird to be back here, in a place that he left with a hint of regret two months ago, persuaded that he’d seen the last of it.

“Hey,” Louis greets him, pushing the door behind him. “Here's Jo.”

Jo is a small dog with long-ish black hair. Her appearance doesn't fit any of the breeds of dogs Zayn is familiar with, and he supposes she's a mix of several. In any case, she's the cutest. He kneels down to pet her head, but she slips away from his hand and hides behind Louis' legs.

“She’s a rescue dog,” Louis explains with a fond voice. It’s clear to see he’s completely in love with her already. _Infatuated_ , as Louis himself would say. “She's been through a lot and I think she's a little weary of strangers, so don't be offended if it takes her a while to warm up to you.”

“That's okay,” Zayn says, getting back up.

“Yeah... I guess she wouldn't be the first one to take her time before trusting some random guy, right?”

It's a clear reference to their own meeting, and it makes Zayn's heart beat a tad faster, but he ignores it and lets out a snarky “Who said I trusted you?” instead.

Louis doesn't even flinch before replying: “Who said I was talking about you and me?”

Zayn scoffs and rolls his eyes, also ignoring the way the phrase 'you and me' is stirring something in the region of his chest. “Anyway, where did you want to go?” he asks instead.

He looks up at the sky. It's a bright May afternoon, with the smell of sun and pollen in the air. All the same, he wishes they weren't in NYC right now, but rather somewhere on the coast of Yorkshire, even if it would be windy as fuck and probably raining. But at least, the sea would be full of wild waves that are desperately missing here, and Jo could run freely, instead of being on a leash.

“Central Park?” Louis suggests, interrupting Zayn’s daydreaming. “I mean, it's just down the street.”

“Sure,” Zayn shrugs. He actually hasn't spent that much time there yet, only visited it once in January, but hasn't gone back since. He suspects that Louis, on his part, knows it like the back of his hand, since it’s so close to his flat.

As they cross the street and make their way towards the entrance, he asks:

“Aren't you afraid of like, being spotted? When you go out in public like that, in the middle of the day?”

They start walking along a path that follows the edge of the park, stopping every few seconds so that Jo can sniff the ground or other dogs’ behinds.

“For some reason, it's never been that much of a problem for me,” Louis ponders. “I mean, I can be pretty inconspicuous and blend in easily if I want to. Guess it's part of the job. And now with the mask, it's even better. But even when people do recognise me, it's not that bothering. It just lasts a couple of minutes. They'll usually be very sweet and ask you for a selfie, then go away.”

“So you've never had any bad or weird encounters?” Zayn prods, since Louis doesn’t seem to mind talking about it.

“Oh, I have,” Louis laughs lightly. “Especially around the time I publicly came out, back in LA. But I dunno, it didn't really matter, I was just so happy not to have to hide anymore, and still be able to do me job, that the few random homophobes who crossed my path just seemed insignificant.” Zayn wonders if that's actually true, or if Louis is just putting on a brave face for his benefit. He can't expect it was easy to come out to the rest of the world and deal with backlash from strangers, especially if Louis was as young as 18 or 19 then. “I moved here soon after,” the other man continues, “and I don't know. For some reason, people are generally way more chill here. I think they expect to stumble upon actors and musicians when they walk around Manhattan, you know? I guess it's the same in LA, but... I can't explain it, it's a different state of mind, somehow.”

“New York state of mind,” Zayn snorts, and Louis frowns in return.

“What’s that?”

“A [track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hI8A14Qcv68) by Nas. Which inspired [ _Empire State of Mind_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ydMlTassYc), the song by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys, you know?” 

Louis still seems to be drawing a blank, so Zayn starts singing the chorus, wondering what the fuck is happening to him. But it’s too late to turn back now.

_In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there’s nothing you can’t do, now you’re in New York_

Louis’ eyes light up in recognition, and to Zayn’s surprise, he joins him for the rest of the chorus, and they end up belting it at the top of their lungs while Jo runs in excited circles in front of them. So much for blending in.

_These streets will make you feel brand-new, big lights will inspire you, let's hear it for New York, New York, New York_

“Gosh, that’s an old one, innit?” Louis asks a little breathlessly when they’re done.

“Yeah, it came out in 2009,” Zayn answers.

Louis looks at him with wide eyes.

“Are you, like, some sort of living encyclopedia of rap?”

“A little bit, I guess,” Zayn chuckles. “But no, the reason why I remember this is because I was dating this girl at the time, and she listened to that song on repeat for weeks. I think she had a crush on Alicia. Well, to be honest, I kinda did too.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow.

“Is this a good time to tell you I met her at some Hollywood party once?” 

“Oh my, I forgot I was talking to Mr. Famous for a minute,” Zayn rolls his eyes, but he knows the fondness in his tone is very blatant.

Louis laughs for a few seconds, then gets more serious and says:

“I’m glad you tend to forget about that, actually. Does that mean you still haven’t watched me films?”

“It was part of the agreement, wasn’t it?”

“It would have been alright to break it. I mean, for all we knew, we would never see each other again,” Louis points out.

“Well, I didn’t watch them. Didn’t even google you.” Zayn doesn’t mention what he now calls The YouTube Accident, of course. “Not that I wasn’t curious,” he continues, “but… I just wanted to keep the memory of what happened intact, I think.” He wonders if he’s being too direct, by basically admitting how much that one night meant to him. But Louis doesn’t seem to be surprised by his remark, and hums in understanding. 

They’re walking along the Lake now, and sometime during their conversation, Louis has picked Jo up, because she was slowing them down quite a bit. Now though, he seems to be getting tired of carrying her, so Zayn gestures towards a bench and they sit down in silence with a safe distance between them, watching the tall buildings reflected in the green water.

“You know,” Louis starts after a few minutes, absently petting Jo, who’s sprawled across his lap, “I appreciate your not looking me up, but I had a lot of time on my hands in Japan. And I’m afraid to say I haven’t returned the favour.”

Zayn freezes. For all those weeks where he was debating whether or not to search for information about Louis online, it never once crossed his mind that _Louis_ might be the one to do it. He feels stupid, as well as trapped. And he’s got no choice but to ask:

“What did you find?”

Louis throws him a cautious glance. Zayn isn’t sure what his own eyes must be expressing right now, but he’s willing to bet on sheer panic.

“That you’re an incredible rapper,” Louis answers softly.

“Don’t,” Zayn mutters, but Louis must not hear him, because he carries on:

“I mean, I obviously don’t know lots about rap, but… I watched some of the videos of you in concert with that other guy. What’s his name again?”

“Liam,” Zayn replies automatically, still stunned.

“Right. Anyway, it was incredible. Made me wish I was there. It’s so, I dunno… Intense, I guess. I mean, _you_ are. I already gathered as much, but seeing it exploited like that, it’s something else. And your lyrics, Zayn… I spent a whole night reading through them all, I was totally hooked. Sorry, I probably sound creepy, and I’m not making a lot of sense right now, but man… I can’t believe you guys aren’t more famous, and…”

It’s the mention of fame that makes Zayn cut him off. “Louis, please stop.”

The other man immediately does, but frowns as he asks:

“You’re mad at me, aren’t ya?”

“I’m not,” Zayn shakes his head. He’s got no right to be mad at Louis for simply looking up content and information that’s out there for everyone to see. “Just… remember when I said I didn’t wanna talk about my writing? That includes rapping.”

“But why?” Louis asks. There’s frustration in his voice and his eyes. “Why won’t you talk about it?”

Zayn sighs, but doesn’t answer. Jo seems to sense that a storm is coming, and she starts getting agitated on Louis’ lap, as her human carries on speaking with a determined tone:

“I read about how you left the duo, right when you were starting to gain attention from the media, and getting a bigger audience. Why did you do that, Zayn? When you clearly live for it? Why did you leave? Why did you come here?”

With each question Louis is asking, Zayn withdraws further into himself. Being confronted about his choices by people who were directly affected by them, like Liam and Niall, was one thing, but seeing the disbelief and lack of understanding in Louis’ eyes is possibly even worse.

When he still doesn’t answer, Louis mutters:

“Let me guess. It’s ‘complicated’.”

“It is,” Zayn argues stubbornly.

“Try me,” Louis insists.

Zayn lets out another sigh. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like Louis will be a harsh judge of what he’s done, and he’s not sure he can really deal with his disappointment.

“Can’t we just leave it alone for today?” he pleads.

Jo probably senses his distress, as she leaves Louis’ lap to come nuzzle Zayn’s. He runs a hand through her hair, trying to ground himself in the soft sensation. Louis looks at his dog with confused eyes, but after a few seconds, his features relax and he points out:

“Looks like she’s adopted you, after all.”

“She has,” Zayn replies, and he can’t help being a little proud of it.

“I feel like you two might gang up on me if I insist too much, so I’ll let you off the hook, if you really don’t want to tell me about all of this,” Louis declares, but curiosity is still visibly eating at him.

And all of a sudden, Zayn feels guilty about being so secretive. After all, Louis has been nothing but open about himself, not only today, but ever since they met. Plus, there’s that book Zayn is writing, and even if he’s pretty sure he won’t end up doing anything with it, he still feels uneasy about the fact that he’s been using Louis as a source of inspiration without his consent. So, maybe it would only be fair to tell Louis about what happened. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

He waits until that one duck in the Lake reaches the opposite bank, then takes a deep breath, and says:

“Alright. I’ll tell you.”

🌇🌇🌇

He doesn't really remember when he listened to rap for the first time—maybe because he always has. After all, it's his dad's favourite genre too, so he wouldn't be surprised if the first track he heard was when he was still in his mum's womb. In any case, he simply can't imagine his life without it. Not a day goes by where he doesn't listen to it almost religiously, no matter how busy, bored, happy or miserable he might be.

He does remember the first time he wrote, though. It was during his first year of elementary school, a few months after he learnt to read. The teacher asked them to write a story over the weekend, something simple and straightforward, nothing extravagant, of course. But Zayn remembers sitting at his desk the entire Sunday afternoon, glancing out the window from time to time while the words poured out of him and appeared on the page in his then shaky handwriting. He was fascinated with it, with the magic of it, with the pride in his parents' eyes when he stormed into the living room to show them his copybook, and with the teacher's surprise when she found out he'd written three pages instead of the few sentences she’d asked for. And he's been chasing this kind of giddiness and ecstasy ever since.

In Zayn's mind, back then, writing and rapping were two separate entities. He stuck to writing stories and poems for years, somehow not even thinking about writing songs until Liam suggested it to him. They met in middle school, instantly hitting it off because they were obsessed with the same rhymes, same lines, same flows. At the time, it seemed to be the only thing that mattered, but of course, they also found out soon enough that the quietude, thoughtfulness and creativity they had in common would have made them great friends either way. 

One day, Liam came to his place unannounced, storming into his room with the latest Nas album in his hand. Zayn, who was writing on his bed, didn’t have time to hide his notebook before his friend came in. He hadn’t talked about that aspect of himself to any of his mates yet, slightly embarrassed with it, and not really sure he even wanted to share his writing with them anyway. It felt too personal, somehow, even to himself. But when Liam asked him what he was doing, Zayn figured it couldn't hurt to tell him. They were only a couple of months into their friendship, but he would have already trusted Liam with his life.

And he was right. Liam didn’t make fun of him or look at him weirdly, he just read the poem Zayn had been writing with a concentrated expression, then quietly declared: “I love it. I feel like you could rap this.”

Zayn didn’t react, at first. This wasn’t an epiphany, there wasn’t any lightbulb suddenly turning on inside his brain. He just thought that Liam’s suggestion was an interesting one, but shrugged it off. Over the next few weeks, though, Liam kept insisting, going on and on about Zayn’s potential as a lyricist, and how he shouldn’t waste it. Eventually, Zayn tried to tell him that what he was interested in was stories—his poems themselves had always had a narrative streak to them. Liam argued that rap could be narrative too, actually _was_ narrative more often than not, citing him artist upon artist until Zayn had no choice but to accept trying to write one track, on the condition that they’d do it together. Liam protested, saying he’d never written anything in his life, but Zayn answered that there was a start to everything, and that with all the rap Liam was listening to, there was no way he’d be complete shit at it.

And once again, he was right. Their collaboration process was flawless right away. They complemented each other well: Zayn’s strength was in the stories and themes, of course, while Liam had a way with flows and rhymes. It quickly became addictive. They spent entire weekends and holidays locked up in Liam’s room, bouncing off ideas in a frenzy and recording tracks with his shitty equipment. Tracks they didn’t do anything with, tracks that just lay around in a computer folder that was getting heavier by the week. Neither of them cared about sharing them—they did it for fun, and to make this boring and stressful part of their lives go faster. Then, they graduated from college and went to uni, and that was when everything changed.

While Zayn was studying English and languages, Liam opted for sound engineering. He met Niall in his program, and the Irish lad ended up being the first person to listen to Zayn and Liam’s tracks—in retrospect, Zayn figures Liam was trying to impress Niall, and it worked. Niall, who was into production, was blown away, and offered to make beats for them. Zayn will always remember that night Liam came back to the flat they shared, and excitedly told him all about how Niall had said they could make it big. He’ll always remember the tinge of anxiety and doom he felt at hearing this phrase— _make it big_. But he didn’t have the heart to tell Liam about it, faking enthusiasm instead. 

The truth was, though, the anxiety never left him, not as they had their first work meeting with Niall, as they came up with a name for their duo, as they uploaded their first track on YouTube, as they read through hundreds of praising comments for it, as they shot their first low-budget music video, as they set up social media and a website because people were asking for it, as they started booking gigs and studio time, as they went on stage for the first time and he almost passed out from the sheer noise of the audience, and especially as they got a call from a major label, asking them if they’d ever consider signing with them.

That phone call was the tipping point. He didn’t sleep that night, trying to decide whether or not it was worth it, to continue doing something that was never _his_ dream to begin with and that he ultimately wasn’t cut out for, to potentially live a life that he was afraid of and that didn’t appeal to him one bit. All of that for the sake of Liam, Niall, the money, and the occasional pride and joy he felt at knowing that it was his words people were listening and connecting to.

By the time sunlight started to invade the room, his decision was made, and on a whim, he spent almost all of his savings on a plane ticket to New York.

Then he knocked on Liam’s door, and hardly waited until his friend was properly awake to unload everything to him, each one of his words making Liam’s skin turn paler and his eyes more confused, until Zayn told him he was leaving, and that it was his final decision. By then, Liam had grown cold, colder than Zayn had ever seen him—but could he blame him? He simply said: “Leave, then”, and turned his back at him, tucking himself under his covers and refusing to say anything more, even when Zayn promised he wouldn’t write any rap songs without Liam, that Liam could rest assured he wouldn’t try to go solo, that the only reason why he’d gone on for that long was because of Liam himself, and that he didn’t want him to stop the project for his sake. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say, he realises now.

In any case, he left the room, keeping himself from squeezing Liam’s shoulder one last time, and regret was already weighing down on him, as well as panic, because there was no going back from this.

🌇🌇🌇

When he finishes telling his story, he continues staring at the water for a moment, afraid of what Louis is going to say, but the other man doesn’t speak. So Zayn chances a glance at him.

Louis isn’t looking at him, but straight at the Lake, his brows furrowed.

“You’re not saying anything,” Zayn points out.

Louis looks at him briefly, but long enough for Zayn to notice something in his eyes that he can’t quite decipher.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, his voice quiet and coming muffled from behind his mask.

“I dunno,” Zayn answers, starting to get frustrated. It’s the first time he’s told the whole story to someone besides his family, and he wasn’t expecting to be met with such… indifference. Especially from Louis. “You asked for an explanation, so I gave you one. I thought you’d have some kind of comment to make afterwards,” he says.

Louis reaches out and for a split second, Zayn is stupid enough to think that he’s going to take his hand or something. But of course, even if that was somehow where the conversation was heading—which it is _not_ —it wouldn’t be reasonable, under the circumstances. Instead, Louis takes Jo, who’s fallen asleep sometime during Zayn’s monologue, and puts her back on his lap. The sudden lack of warmth makes Zayn feel like he’s been plunged into the North Sea.

Louis, who’s clearly been trying to buy time by doing this, eventually replies:

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” Zayn frowns.

“Exactly why you left. And why you came here.”

“I told you, I left because I couldn’t stand the idea of staying. Of carrying on,” Zayn explains once again. Maybe he wasn’t clear enough the first time around, possibly because it’s always been hard, even for him, to understand exactly why he’d been feeling so shitty about the situation that the only solution was to leave. “I felt trapped in this whole thing, like.” It’s the best he can do.

Louis raises an eyebrow.

“So you ran away?”

“I didn’t _run away_ ,” Zayn answers, hating how he can feel himself getting heated at the mere suggestion, and forcing himself to keep his voice even.

“You came here, to the other side of the world,” Louis prods. “It feels like you ran away.”

“I came here specifically not because I wanted to escape to a place far from home, but because I thought New York would inspire me with my writing. With a non-rapping project I’ve had for a while.” He hadn’t meant to mention it, because he didn’t want it to lead to Louis finding out about his book, but if that’s what it takes for the other man to stop basically calling him a coward—Zayn’s own prerogative, thank you very much—then so be it.

“And did it? Inspire you?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Zayn replies, refusing to give more details.

Louis slightly shakes his head at the answer, and Zayn fully realises then how stubborn Louis actually is, at least as much as him, and that he won’t get away with his vagueness that easily, this time.

“So you’ve been writing, then? Are you gonna try to have it published?”

That’s potentially one of the questions Zayn’s been dreading the most.

“No… I mean… I can’t,” he mumbles, feeling himself turn red as he’s assailed with scenes and dialogues from his book that he doesn’t want anyone, least of all Louis, to be aware of.

“You can’t, or you won’t?” Louis asks, relentlessly.

Jo must sense that her human is starting to get agitated, as she suddenly stirs on Louis’ lap, and opens her eyes, which land straight on Zayn’s face. Zayn averts his own, feeling weirdly self-conscious because of the dog’s stare. He focuses on the water again, barely noticing how the day has abruptly grown darker over the course of their exchange.

“I told you, I can’t publish it, alright?” he eventually answers. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

Zayn can’t help but roll his eyes.

“I dunno, so… fucking insisting, and judging, like.”

“Because I just don’t understand,” Louis repeats without leaving either of them the time to breathe. “Or actually, I _do_ understand. It’s like, the minute something good is heading your way, but it might be a little complicated, you chicken out and run off in the opposite direction. Like you can’t accept that happiness comes with a price, and some compromises.”

“It’s not true. I don’t do that,” Zayn denies, his voice cold, but Louis doesn’t seem to care, and keeps contradicting him:

“It is. It’s what happened with your duo. It’s what’s happening with your book, or whatever it is you’re writing now. And it’s what happened with me too.”

Zayn is taken aback that Louis has brought up the latter point so explicitly. He would’ve never dared doing it himself, and maybe for that very reason, it upsets him that Louis did.

“Oh, so that’s what it’s about, then?” he chuckles. “You’re mad at me because of what happened in February?”

“I’m not mad,” Louis sighs out. “I’m just worried you’re gonna follow that pattern your whole life, if no one points it out to you. I’m just trying to help you.”

“No, you’re trying to patronise me,” Zayn answers, this time getting heated for real. He can’t explain it, but the one thing he’s never been able to stand is people assuming that he needs help, that he needs _them_ to figure his life out, like they want to save him or something. Zayn doesn’t want, doesn’t need to be saved, especially not by Louis. Once was enough. “It’s like, even though we’re basically strangers, you think you know better. But you don’t, alright?” he adds, standing up and starting to pace in front of the bench, hardly realising it. “The three things you mentioned, they have nothing to do with each other, they’re not a pattern, or whatever. Maybe I did ‘run away’ from being a rapper, but I told you, I didn’t feel like I had a choice. In a way, I was running _towards_ something else instead, something more fulfilling. I did it for my own peace of mind, and you can call it selfish if you want, but to be honest I don’t give a fuck, because _Liam_ understands my decision now, and that’s all I care about. And the book’s got nothing to do with me being a coward, or whatever. I was just stubborn enough to choose to write about something that’s not publishable.”

Through all this, Louis hasn’t blinked an eye, has just stared at Zayn’s moving figure like he’s just an image on a screen, and somehow that unnerves Zayn even more, but he bites his tongue as Louis calmly answers:

“Have you considered the fact that you might’ve chosen to write about this topic because of that very reason?”

Zayn almost wants to tear at his own hair in frustration, but instead, he stops in front of Louis, momentarily forgetting about the required distance, and spits out:

“Oh, so now you’re trying to be my therapist?”

“I’m not trying to be anything but meself, Zayn,” Louis replies sharply, cradling Jo closer to his chest with a hint of impatience in his eyes.

“Funny, that. I thought that’s what your job was.”

Louis scoffs.

“You think I’m acting when I’m with you?”

Zayn feels exhausted, all of a sudden. Exhausted about this useless meeting, this useless argument, Louis’ useless comments and his own useless overreactions. All he wants is to walk away, go home, and forget all about today.

“I don’t know,” he says, burying his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. It’s the first time I talk that much in months, and I’m tired, yeah? Telling you about all this was a mistake, so just forget about it.” He pauses, then quietly adds as an afterthought: “I should’ve known you wouldn’t understand, anyway.”

And somehow, this remark seems to affect Louis more than anything else Zayn has said to him in the past few minutes.

He frowns, and his eyes turn visibly darker as he searches Zayn’s face for something, something that frightens Zayn.

“Why wouldn’t I understand?” he eventually asks, his tone weirdly neutral.

“Because being famous is such a walk in the park for you, innit?” Zayn tries to explain, mentally slapping himself for the involuntary pun. “It’s like you were born for it, and it’s beyond you why anyone wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to have the same thing,” he carries on. “But the truth is, I don’t want that kind of life. And that’s why it wouldn’t work between us. It’s sad, yeah, but neither of us can do anything about it.”

There. It’s out in the open, now. The thing he almost said back in February but didn’t, because he didn’t want to hurt Louis. And it’s not like he wants to hurt him today, but he also needs him to hear it, because he _himself_ needs to hear it, to be reminded of the reason why he has to stop obsessing over Louis, why it was a bad idea to even agree to this date—or meeting, or whatever—and why it should never happen again.

The realisation makes him dizzy and there’s a sudden din in his ears, almost keeping him from hearing Louis’ next pointed question.

“Do you really think that? That there’s no way it could ever work between us?”

Zayn shrugs, and it seems to be enough to send Louis down into his own spiral.

“You know what, fuck you.” The careful neutrality of Louis’ voice is all gone now, and even as he flinches at the insult, Zayn absently tells himself that he’s finally getting a sense of his range as an actor. “All I wanted to do was try to make you see how much of a shame it was for you to have done this, like, a proper waste of talent,” Louis continues, his harsh gaze in stark contrast with the sweet face of Jo staring up at Zayn as well. “If you’d rather stay in this little life of yours, work a counter job and live in your tiny flat, isolate yourself from everyone who cares about you, and only write on weekends until you don’t have the energy for it anymore, until it all dies out and goes forgotten somewhere in the recesses of your computer, then go ahead. As you said, we’re basically strangers anyway. I don’t know why I even thought my opinion would matter to you, since you so clearly think we have nothing to do with each other. And I don’t know why I wasted so much time on you.”

He abruptly stops speaking, but it’s Zayn who feels breathless. The ringing in his ears has subsided, and instead, he can hear the birds sing high up in the trees, accompanying the quiet glow of the sun setting over the city.

He can hardly process Louis’ sentences but they make his heart sting anyway, and he’d walk away without another word if it wasn’t for the last drops of pride he’s got left in his body, springing out of his mouth before he can hold them back.

“Right. I won’t make you lose one more minute of your precious time, don’t worry.”

He stares at Louis one last second, but only sees defiance in his eyes, so he turns away and stomps towards the closest exit of the park, promising himself he won’t ever set foot in it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~some~ of you told me you hated me last week. now i'm kinda considering disappearing from the surface of the Earth  
> jokes aside, things will start to truly look up in the next chapter, so... yay?


End file.
